Randy Bachman Read online

  I’ve been fortunate to be associated with two of Canada’s greatest rock bands. In the mid 60s, the Guess Who put Winnipeg on the national music map with “Shakin’ All Over” and helped create a national music scene. By the end of the decade we’d become international stars, scoring gold records in the U.S., including a coveted #1 single with “American Woman.” Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s brand of hard-driving rock would earn us gold and platinum records around the world. The Guess Who and BTO earned their acclaim; no one handed it to us on a silver platter. I’m proud of the achievements of both those bands.

  Back in 1962 in Winnipeg, I was asked to join a group called Allan and the Silvertones, led by Allan Kowbel. The name was later changed to Chad Allan and the Reflections. We copied hit parade music and played dances all over Winnipeg. We tried writing our own music, and believe me, it’s like anybody trying to write their first song. It was pretty bad. So we had to copy American music, and if we wanted to record an old American R&B song, someone else always seemed to beat us to it.

  Back in the early 60s, once your band played your neighbourhood community club, high school, and maybe nearby community clubs in your part of the city, then you would venture further afield and play in other neighbourhoods. Neil Young and the Squires started out in Crescentwood/River Heights in south Winnipeg but began to branch out, playing in St. Vital and in the North End. The Reflections played at Crescentwood Community Club and River Heights Community Club, Neil’s stomping grounds. The scene became Winnipeg-wide. It wasn’t long before we were the top band in the city.

  Chad Allan (Allan Kowbel) had a friend whose cousin in England would every so often mail him tapes of songs from the U.K. hit parade, and he’d bring them over to listen to. To us, the songs sounded so exotic and different from the American music we heard on the radio. On one particular tape we heard this song called “Shakin’ All Over,” and we decided to record it. Later, one night in December 1964, we pulled up with all our gear in our station wagon to CJAY TV Channel 7 studios beside the Polo Park shopping mall. This wasn’t a recording studio; it was a TV station with one microphone in the middle of the room. We set up our amplifiers and drums around this one microphone and recorded “Shakin’ All Over.”

  We sent the tape to the label we were signed to, Quality Records in Toronto. The head of A&R (artist and repertoire) for the label, George Struth, phoned us up and told us that he loved the record and thought it was a hit, but that he didn’t want to put our name on it. By then we were known as Chad Allan and the Expressions; we’d had to change our name after an American group named the Reflections scored a hit with “Just Like Romeo and Juliet.” But we weren’t sure if we’d keep the Expressions name, and we hadn’t yet cleared it legally. So George decided instead just to put a white label on the 45 with the words “Guess Who?” on it and send it out to radio stations. He told us that our recording had a very British sound to it and that he wanted to release it right away. “We’ll let people guess who you are. That way they’ll think you’re a mystery British group. We’ll start this rumour that this is a recording by some guys from various British bands, like one Rolling Stone, two Beatles, one Shadow. They couldn’t put their names on it for contractual reasons so they simply labelled it ‘Guess Who?’” It really did sound like a British record. The trick worked, and the record went to #1 across Canada.

  That’s how we got our name the Guess Who, even though we didn’t want it. George Struth phoned us and said, “We’ve got your new name. It’s Guess Who!” We told him we hated it! Chad was particularly disappointed that his name was now omitted.

  SCEPTER RECORDS IN NEW YORK

  In the spring of 1965, after “Shakin’ All Over” had been a hit across Canada, George Struth licensed the record to an American label, Scepter Records, based in New York. Scepter was primarily a black music label with artists like the Crystals, Dionne Warwick, and the Shirelles, but they also had the Kingsmen. The Kingsmen’s “Louie Louie” had been a million-selling single in 1963. Scepter Records released our version of “Shakin’ All Over” in the U.S. and it began climbing the Billboard singles charts in June, rising to #22. The Guess Who became the first Winnipeg group to chart internationally.

  I remember I used to go down to Kresge’s, a five-and-dime store next to the Eaton’s store downtown, every Thursday morning because the woman who worked in their record department would get the new Billboard magazine in that day each week. I couldn’t afford to buy it, so I’d ask her where “Shakin’ All Over” was on the singles chart that week, and she’d say it was like #61 with a bullet. I’d still be going off to classes at the Manitoba Institute of Technology (now Red River Community College) to study business administration every day while our record was climbing the U.S. charts. We were so naive that we had no idea what having a single on the American charts meant.

  It was early June and I was in my last year studying business administration, with final exams only a few weeks away, when the band got a call from an agent in New York. Our manager at the time, Bob Burns, had hooked us up with an agent there named Paul Cantor. Paul dangled the biggest carrot of all in front of us: He said he could get us on The Ed Sullivan Show. Elvis, Buddy Holly, and the Beatles had played the Sullivan show, and it was the biggest variety show on television. Everyone watched it on Sunday evenings. So Paul wanted us to travel to New York; all we had to do was get ourselves there. “Shakin’ All Over” had become a hit in the U.S. The big time awaited us.

  So there I was, cleaning out my locker at school, when the head of the business faculty came up and asked me what I was doing. I told him I was quitting because I was going to be on The Ed Sullivan Show. I’ll always remember his reply: “You’ll be back.” He walked away shaking his head.

  Paul Cantor managed Dionne Warwick, so he was a big-time player. However, he wasn’t exactly straight with us. When he’d mentioned The Ed Sullivan Show he neglected to add the word “maybe.” Nevertheless, the five of us drove non-stop, arriving in New York on Sunday evening when the Sullivan show was on. We made our way to the Ed Sullivan Theater on Broadway (currently the home of Late Night with David Letterman) and knocked on the back door. “We’re the Guess Who. We drove down all the way from Canada. We’re on the show tonight.”

  The guy looked us up and down, then checked his clipboard and replied, “Not this week,” and closed the door. We later learned that what Paul Cantor meant was that if our record went Top 10 he could maybe get us a shot on the show. Our hearts sank.

  All we knew about New York back in Winnipeg was a television cops and robbers show called The Naked City. So we were scared to death because we thought somebody got murdered every week in New York according to that TV show. We would only go from our hotel to Scepter studios and back. But after time went by and nobody was killed, we started venturing out further. We checked out Greenwich Village, Carnegie Hall, and the Empire State Building.

  Florence Greenberg owned Scepter Records. She was a successful songwriter herself; she’d written “Soldier Boy” for the Shirelles. Actually, we thought Scepter Records was Spector Records, so we were going over the moon with excitement thinking we were going to be produced by the one and only Phil Spector. That’s how green we were. When we arrived at Scepter Records to get our royalty cheque for “Shakin’ All Over,” it was $400 for the entire band. We’d sold a quarter of a million copies in the States and that’s all we earned. We were ripped off, but that’s the way it was for everyone back then. We didn’t care. We were in New York!

  Florence brought in music publishers who came to pitch songs for us to record. One of the songs we cut was Mitch Murray’s “I’ll Keep Coming Back.” He had previously written hits for Gerry and the Pacemakers. We were also offered Artie Wayne’s “Use Your Imagination,” and two songwriters named Gary Geld and Peter Udell came to the studio and played us “Hurting Each Other.” We recorded both songs. “Hurting Each Other” later became a big hit for the Carpenters. We also recorded Bruce Johnston’s “Don’t Be S
cared.” Bruce later joined the Beach Boys. We ended up recording quite a few tracks in New York that summer.

  One day I was going up in the elevator to the studio and I saw two guys in leather coats and jeans. I recognized them right away. They were Burt Bacharach and Hal David, who were coming in to present their latest batch of songs to Dionne Warwick. I was hoping they would offer us some of their songs.

  Instead, Florence brought in these three black high-school kids named Nick Ashford, Valerie Simpson, and Josie Armstead. They sat down at the piano and sang their songs for us. I think Florence was trying to turn us into an R&B soul group. We liked their stuff, and picked “Hey Ho (What You Do to Me)” to record. The three of them sang on the track with us and also did the backing chorus on “Hurting Each Other.” Ashford and Simpson later wrote “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.”

  Florence’s son Stanley Greenberg was the studio engineer and he was blind. That really blew us away. He knew the board by feel, so at first we didn’t realize he was blind because he knew what he was doing. The studio had four tracks, meaning that we’d been moving up, track by track, from mono in Winnipeg to three tracks at Kay Bank studio in Minneapolis (where we recorded many of our early singles) and now to four.

  After recording at Scepter Studios for a week, we went out on tour with the Kingsmen, working up and down the East Coast as far south as Florida. We were certainly wide-eyed, innocent Canadian prairie kids. It was the biggest thing we had ever done. The package tour included us, Dion and the Belmonts, and the Turtles. Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs did some dates with us, as well as Eddie Hodge, who had “I’m Gonna Knock on Your Door.” Barbara Mason did some shows with us too, but she was so young her mother had to accompany her. We would do a fifteen-minute set: “Shakin’ All Over” and a couple of other songs that nobody knew. They only recognized our hit, so sometimes we would open and close with it.

  We were living one of those rock ’n’ roll movies. We were away from home the entire summer and into the fall, living out of suitcases in and out of New York. The money was awful, but that wasn’t the motivation for us. I don’t know how we managed to survive. At every stop we’d get a room with two double beds and a cot, and share. We never knew when it would end, but we didn’t want it to end. We were able to ride that song for the better part of a year because it continued to break out in different regions and kept getting airplay.

  Back in New York, Paul Cantor asked us if we’d back up the Shirelles and the Crystals. We were good at copying records, so we said sure, and we did that for a few months. We would do our own set, take a break, then come out and back one of these girl groups playing all their hits, five white kids from Canada backing a trio of black girls.

  But we had no idea we were walking into the 1965 race riots. We played places where there was blood on the floor. We drove through Georgia and saw the ghettoes. That was quite an eye-opener. We would go to gas stations with everyone in the same vehicle and guys would greet us with shotguns. We were called all sorts of horrible names for being with blacks. It was scary. We didn’t know any better. When we played in Chicago there was a riot going on right in front of us on the floor, black and white kids fighting. It was unbelievable. We didn’t have these kinds of problems in Canada.

  I was amazed travelling with the Guess Who down South in the U.S. It was my first time in the rural South, and you’d be driving down the highway and look out and see these fields that were all white. They were filled with cotton plants. We got out and felt the plants, and they were just like the cotton batten we used back in Canada.

  Once Scepter had enough tracks from our recording sessions, they released an album. But because it was primarily a black label, they put a black couple dancing on the cover and didn’t include a picture of us on it. One of our first gigs in the States was at a black high school in Washington, D.C. We drove down from New York, but as we got to the gate everyone was staring at us. We were booked to play an after-school sock hop. The principal came up and asked us what we were doing there. “We’re the Guess Who.” And he replied, “No, you’re not.” So we had to show him the Canadian album cover and he eventually let us in, but it was a very weird experience.

  BURTON LORNE CUMMINGS

  Following our U.S. touring schedule, keyboard player Bob Ashley left the group because he didn’t like being on the road so much. One time the Crystals dragged Bob out onstage and stuck a leather jacket on him for “He’s a Rebel.” He was a real shy kind of guy and felt humiliated by that. Chad played piano for a while, but we needed a permanent replacement.

  The Deverons were a North End Winnipeg band from St. John’s High School that featured Burton Cummings on sax, piano, and vocals. They were all still in their teens and already a popular act throughout the city. Burton had made a name for himself after dancing on the grand piano at the Gerry and the Pacemakers concert at the Winnipeg Arena earlier that year. So when the Guess Who needed a new keyboard player we poached Burton Cummings from the Deverons. He was seventeen when we approached him, and still living with his mother and grandmother. But he had the goods. He didn’t hesitate. We called him in to Bob Burns’s office and made him the offer. He made a joke about turning us down for an offer from the Beatles and then walked out the door, only to poke his head back in and ask, “Are you guys serious?” His life would never be the same; nor would mine.

  Burton and I became buddies. His mother asked me to look after him because he didn’t have a father, so I’d drive him home after gigs and pick him up the next day. I was like his big brother. But he had his own way of doing things and a rebellious streak, so he started to rebel against me. He didn’t need a big brother anymore.

  LONDON CALLING

  When our record “His Girl” on the King label made the British record charts we were giddy with excitement. Bob Burns had been contacted by Phillip Solomon at King Records, and we were invited to go to London, our dream come true. It was February 20, 1967, and a typical snowy Winnipeg day, but we had a big send-off at Winnipeg airport, with all the TV and press covering our departure. Many of our contemporaries on the local music scene showed up to bid us good luck because we were living their dreams. Naively, we thought we’d actually see Cliff Richard standing on a street corner or the Shadows and Beatles playing at the London Palladium. This was our Mecca. We couldn’t wait to go over.

  We borrowed money for airfare, fancy new stage clothes from the Stag Shop, and new equipment from Garnet, all totally financed. It cost a fortune to ship the gear over, but we figured we were about to hit the big time. The streets of London were paved with gold. We went expecting to become the new Beatles, but we were rewarded with being the new nothings. We had no contracts, no bookings, zilch. All that money spent for nothing. It left us $25,000 in debt.

  We met some very undesirable and disreputable people there who tried to con us into signing a management and recording contract with them. On our first day in London, we went to the offices of King Records run by Phillip Solomon. He laid out his plan for us, which was no different from what most young, hungry, naive bands were offered in those days. The difference was that we’d already been through the mill with Scepter Records, so we were wary. It was a very one-sided contract that gave us nothing and gave them everything. They would put us on a weekly salary of £400 for the whole band. If we had hit records or toured, we’d still get the same salary and nothing more. I found out later that Van Morrison’s band, Them, were signed to one of Solomon’s contracts and never made a penny. It was presented to us as “Take it or leave it.” I looked at Jim Kale, who was doing a slow burn. We all knew without even discussing it what our response would be.

  “We’ll leave it.”

  We got up and walked out. They thought they had us by dangling a British tour before our eyes. When we hit the street we looked at each other and realized, “What have we just done? We have no tour, no label, no money. Nothing.” Bob Burns had failed to secure any contracts before we left. Our management team hadn’t got
ten anything in writing before we flew off to England. Our only saving grace was that we had return-trip tickets.

  So there we were in London with nothing, jobless in the U.K. We had nothing to do—and yet we still had a wonderful time. We pooled all our money, which wasn’t much, and rented one room at the Regent Palace Hotel in Piccadilly Circus. “Here we are in London, guys, let’s make the most of it.” Since we had our return tickets, we knew we’d get home. So we walked around and saw as many bands as we could in all the clubs. It was an incredible time. Probably the best two weeks of my life up to that point.

  It was the custom in English hotels to serve a full breakfast—bacon, sausages, eggs, kippers, toast, cereal, muffins, everything—so we befriended the Spanish maids who pushed the breakfast trolleys from room to room. When the morning serving was over they would bring the leftovers to us. We literally lived on cold bacon and toast, which we made into bacon sandwiches, for the two weeks we stayed there.

  I had a subway map, and each day I’d venture out around London, walking, riding the tube, and observing London life. I went to Carnaby Street and Soho and checked out record shops. I just figured that I may never be in London again. I soaked up all the sights and sounds of the city and would return to the hotel each night exhausted and have a bacon sandwich.

  Walking around Soho, we met other songwriters. We met a guy named Reginald Dwight, who later changed his name to Elton John. We met a Canadian songwriter named Ralph Murphy from Ottawa who is still my very good mate today. We had on these Canadian pins because people had told us before we left that we wouldn’t want to be identified as Yanks. They didn’t like Americans over there. So we had these pins on, and Ralph saw us, and we kind of latched onto each other. He took us to his publisher, Mills Music, who had coincidentally published “Shakin’ All Over,” which had made a lot of money for them and Johnny Kidd’s widow.

  At Mills Music, the head of A&R, Tony Hiller, offered us a deal. If we would play for nothing on some demo sessions at Regent Sound Studios for other songwriters, he’d let us keep the tapes as our recordings. There was no money involved. It was just time in the studio. He also said we could record a couple of our own songs. We didn’t have anything else to do, so we agreed. I quickly wrote a song for the sessions, “There’s No Getting Away from You,” in kind of a Walker Brothers style that I credited to Spencer Charles. We’d brought the first Buffalo Springfield album with us, so we recorded Neil Young’s “Flying on the Ground Is Wrong.” I’m pretty sure ours was the first cover of a Neil Young song.