Detroit accents

Detroit native Don Was has performed worldwide, recorded the Rolling Stones at his house and won six Grammy Awards over his decades-long career, but one thing he’s never done is perform in Lansing.

That bummer streak ends on Feb. 23, when he brings his latest band, Don Was & the Pan-Detroit Ensemble, to Grewal Hall at 224. The dynamic outfit comprises top-shelf Motor City musicians who play a mix of covers and originals from Was’ catalog, including songs by Was (Not Was), the funky pop-rock outfit he co-founded with David Jay Weiss, aka David Was. The band scored a Billboard hit with “Walk the Dinosaur,” an undeniable 1987 earworm. 

City Pulse spoke with the multifaceted Don Was (born Don Edward Fagenson) from his home in Los Angeles, though the Detroiter and president of Blue Note Records still owns a house in Michigan with his wife, Gemma Corfield. Was, 72, discussed everything from his unforgettable day producing “Love Shack” for the B-52s to his relaxing day watching the Super Bowl with Roy Orbison.

You started your production work in Detroit in the 1970s, but your first big break was cutting Carly Simon’s 1985 album, “Spoiled Girl,” would you agree?

Don Was: Absolutely. I’d produced some English bands, and we’d made that first Was (Not Was) album, but Carly Simon was the first established, big artist to take a chance on me. She was at a point in 1983 where she wanted to be in the modern age, and she was looking for a young, new producer so her record wouldn’t sound like everybody else’s. She called me up, which I couldn’t believe.

What do you remember most about first meeting Carly?

She flew me to her place on Martha’s Vineyard. She picked me up at the local airport barefoot and took me out to dinner. I moved to New York while we were working on her record, and I was broke. It was very difficult for me to sublet an apartment in New York City. I found a place and had to go before the building’s board to get accepted. I had no credit. I had no credit cards. I had no money. And Carly Simon went with me to the interview. In 1984, you can imagine that she was the queen of New York City. She authenticated me and got me the apartment.

After that, you moved to Los Angeles, but you grew up in Oak Park, Michigan, correct? What was your childhood like?

Yes, that’s correct. My parents were both teachers. They were counselors. My dad was a counselor at Clinton Junior High School when I went there, and then he was at Oak Park High School when I was there.

Photo by Ron Adelberg Don Was & the Pan-Detroit Ensemble performs a mix of covers and originals, including songs by Was (Not Was), the band Was co-founded in 1979.

I imagine it was hard to get in trouble at school without your father finding out quickly, huh?

I got into some trouble, and he knew. He was a pretty cool guy and understood the difference between mischief and criminal behavior. He was a forgiving, tolerant cat.

Growing up in the ‘60s, did your parents support your early love of music?

They were always supportive of it. My mom was maybe a little too supportive. Not only were they supportive during my youth, like driving us to gigs before we could drive, but even when I was an adult. Man, it was tough in the late ‘70s. I was always wearing those “Whip Inflation Now” buttons. Times were hard. I was married to my first wife and had a kid. I was playing five nights a week. I couldn’t sustain a family even on a very minimal lifestyle, and my folks helped me out into my 30s. I worked and played, but they ensured I didn’t fall too far into debt.

The “lean period,” they call it.

Yeah, and it was a long lean period, too. It was a big moment for me. One time, I posed for an ad in a magazine. I was sitting there listening to Harman Kardon speakers. They took pictures of me and ran them in a bunch of magazines. I made more than my dad had made in a year as a teacher just sitting there doing nothing for two hours. I took the bread, and I bought him a Lexus. It was a big moment.

Your first high school band was the Saturns. Was that a typical Beatles-influenced garage band?

This was early, like 1963. We started pre-Beatles. It’s hard to imagine now, but there was one summer when the cool alternative band was Peter, Paul and Mary. I got to present an award to Paul Stookey, who’s from Birmingham, Michigan. I got to tell him, “Before the Beatles, everyone was trying to be Peter, Paul and Mary.” So, we were 12 years old in a folk group, and then everything changed when we saw the Beatles on “The Ed Sullivan Show.”

What first made you realize you wanted to make a career out of music?

I never thought of doing anything else, even before the Beatles. I’d come home from school, and I’d start playing music. I was just one of those kids, man. There was no plan B ever. I’d sit at the piano for hours. I tell people to look for it in their kids. If they won’t go to bed because they’re playing, and you can’t get them to put their guitar or instrument down, that’s a good sign. I tell people, “Don’t make your kids practice. Don’t force lessons.” It’s supposed to be fun and combat all of your responsibilities. It’s supposed to be an escape and your rebellion. You play music, you don’t work music.

Many producers leave Michigan and hire session players in LA or Nashville, Tennessee. What made you move back to Detroit and form the Pan-Detroit Ensemble?

In the ‘90s, there was a period where I got to work with all of my great heroes almost right in a row: Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, the Rolling Stones, Brian Wilson. They’re all great songwriters. And then a writer’s block set in. Every time I sat down at the piano to come up with something, I thought, “Well, what’s the fucking point of this? Brian Wilson is just down the street.” It haunted me. Finally, I realized I was never going to be as good as Willie Nelson, but Willie Nelson never dropped acid and went to see the MC5 at the Grande Ballroom in Detroit. There are certain things you had to grow up in to appreciate and absorb. So, I thought, “Don’t try to be anyone. Be the best version of who you are. Take that as far as you can.” That’s what I tell all the artists I sign to Blue Note Records, and that’s the advice I give to artists I produce. I made it apply to myself. Be who you are. And that’s who I am: a Detroit musician.

Sonically, what was your initial plan for the Pan-Detroit Ensemble? Did you achieve the sound you had in your head?

We were trying to get there with Was (Not Was) and achieved it at moments. It was trying to combine the horn approach of Miles Davis in the ‘60s when he and Wayne Shorter were playing together. It was the kind of soul grooves I grew up listening to. Add to that the energy and edge I picked up from Iggy and the Stooges, Mitch Ryder and the MC5. There’s just a raw energy to Detroit music, whether it’s in jazz, R&B or rock ‘n roll — it’s a reflection of the people who live in the city. It’s a very honest population. No one is too concerned with putting on airs and impressing other people.

And there’s a regional sound difference. Musicians from Detroit just play differently.

They absolutely do. When all nine of us got in a room together for the first time, we hadn’t all played together before, but it clicked in the first 10 minutes. We knew that not only would the show be fine, but something here also merited further exploration.

Photo by Kory Thibeault The Pan-Detroit Ensemble features some of Was’ longtime collaborators.

Do you prefer studio work or live performances these days?

I don’t see them necessarily as disconnected. I can tell you that I was just down in Cancún, Mexico, playing a week of shows with Bob Wier for a bunch of Grateful Dead fans who took over a resort. There’s nothing like playing shows. There’s a moment that will occur when you can feel this force moving through you. It doesn’t originate with you. It comes from beyond, but you can feel it when you get connected to it. You stop thinking about holding a piece of wood and moving your fingers. Your fingers start moving on their own. You hear what everyone else is doing, and you feel a connection with the musicians. You can feel that connection with the audience. I don’t know what kind of ecstasy equals that feeling.

Bob Seger said he asked you to help produce his 1991 album, “The Fire Inside,” because of your work with Bonnie Raitt. Do you make similar musical connections inside recording studios?

Any work I have subsequent to 1989 is either because of Bonnie Raitt or the B-52s. I recorded “Love Shack” and Bonnie’s “Nick of Time” a month apart. They both took off. I went from being a pariah to still riding the wave of those two albums.

With “Love Shack,” did you know it was a hit when you were producing it?

Yeah, and sometimes that’s not a guarantee that it will be a hit record. There are a lot of other factors that enter into it that have nothing to do with music. You know when magic hits the room. “Love Shack” is definitely one of those songs. When she did the “tin roof … rusted” line, even the band was flummoxed. She infused this meaningless line with so much gravitas that the band fell apart. Her delivery is so powerful, and she runs the gamut of emotions. It’s like a mini-manic moment. She literally started crying at the end of it. I thought, “Wow, this is as powerful as ‘A Love Supreme.’”

You cut Raitt’s big hit “Something to Talk About” and many others. Did you have a similarly heavy moment with her?

I felt the same when we cut “I Can’t Make You Love Me” with Bonnie. When she did that performance with Bruce Hornsby, it was so intensely personal. We only had to fix the two lines where she started crying. It was somewhere in the middle. We had to go back and punch those lines up.

In 1990, you recorded an album for fellow Michigander Iggy Pop. He can be kind of wild. What was that like?

I love him, man. The thing about Iggy is every wild story you’ve heard about him has some basis in truth. But that’s just part of him. He’s one of the smartest people. He’s extremely well read and quite knowledgeable about art and all kinds of things. He’s a distinguished gentleman, but he’s also that guy, too. It’s not a stage act. It’s not like Alice Cooper, a showman who becomes a character to do the show. Iggy is 100% real.

Another eccentric rock star you’ve worked with is Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys. You even made an excellent documentary about him (1995’s “I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times”). How’d that happen?

I was producing my high school buddy Doug Fieger, who was in the group the Knack. I was doing a Knack album, and they were pretty hung up on the bootleg version of the Beach Boys’ “Smile” album. I was unaware of that part of Brian’s history, and I started listening to those things. I thought, “This is the greatest record maker ever.” I got deep into it. Then I found myself at this party for an AIDS charity. Elizabeth Taylor was there. It was a very Hollywood kind of thing. Suddenly, I was in this buffet line with Brian. It was at the height of my being obsessed with him. I couldn’t believe I was meeting him. I couldn’t stop raving about everything I was listening to, so he invited me to his studio, and we became good friends. I started playing one-off gigs with him.

Looking back, do any Wilson gigs you played stand out?

We played one where it was just Brian and me. I played bass, and he played piano and sang. It was for the Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. It was a benefit at someone’s house, a mansion in Mandeville Canyon (in Los Angeles). It was another weird event. Ronald Reagan was there. Jackson Browne and Brian Wilson were the entertainment for the night. Brian comes out, and we do “California Girls.” It was a mess. He forgot the words. At the end of it, he said, “Man, I really fucked that one up.” All these people are sitting there with their little kids. Then we ruined another Beach Boys classic. It was a bizarre gig.

Photo by Bob Steshetz Was’ multifaceted career includes work as a music director, film composer and touring bassist.

Were you two able to save the gig?

Yeah. Brian had just written his song “Love and Mercy.” It’s brilliant. He started singing it as the sun was going down over the mountain in front of us. He was so present. It was such a moving interpretation of the song. I think I stopped playing. I couldn’t believe I was standing there watching Brian Wilson go that deep into something. I thought, “Man, if people could see this.” That’s where the idea for the documentary came from.

Producing the Rolling Stones must’ve been unreal. “Love is Strong” was all over MTV in 1994.

It was surreal. I was a huge fan. I went to that 1964 show at Olympia Stadium in Detroit before they were famous. There were like 200 people. I saw them with Brian Jones at Cobo Hall. I bought all their records the day they came out, right up to “Voodoo Lounge,” which I already had because I worked on it. We recorded a lot of the overdubs in my house. I couldn’t believe they were hanging out at my pool for months. It was mind-blowing, but I also had a job to do. I couldn’t fawn over them.

You worked with another pioneer, Bob Dylan, on his 1990 album, “Under the Red Sky.” Who contacted you to do the LP?

He just called me and asked if we could do something together, then sent me the song “God Knows.” He said, “Let’s try cutting that. Put together a band for me, and we’ll go from there.” I’d heard stories about him being difficult in the studio, so I thought, “Let’s put a band together that’s so great that he’d be happy.” I called Stevie Ray Vaughan, Jimmie Vaughan and David Lindley. Those were my three guitar players. Kenny Aronoff played drums. I played bass. We cut the song in about 15 minutes. We had this great band all set up, so we cut four more songs Bob was in the process of writing. I loved being in the studio with him.

How does Dylan work in the studio?

He’s got a real sense of what feels good and what doesn’t. He’s ambitious, and he’ll chase things until he gets them right. If you listen to any of the outtakes from any of his albums, he never does the same song twice. Each take is different. He just keeps searching until he lands on the thing. He’s got a really good sense of when it feels honest and real. He knows what it should be, and he’s not willing to accept less. He’s looking for the next gear.

You worked with another Traveling Wilburys member, Roy Orbison, on his posthumously released “King of Hearts” LP. Did you spend much time with him?

They called me in to help finish the record. David Was did it with me. Roy and I became good friends. He was funny, just a good guy. We used to hang out with him. Me, David and Roy went to Big Sur, California, once. We got three cabins in a row and just sat there writing songs and hanging out. I remember watching the Super Bowl with him.

The late Glenn Frey of the Eagles was a Detroit native as well. How’d you get along with him when you produced his “Strange Weather” LP?

He was a good friend. Our kids ended up going to school together and being in a band. He had a heart of gold, and he was a great artist, man. To cut a song with him and hear his voice coming through the speakers was unreal. We grew up about a mile away from each other. I didn’t know him back then in Detroit, but that’s a bond. We hit the consonants the same.

You and Glenn shared the Detroit accent, huh?

Stevie Wonder pointed that out to me. When I met Stevie for the first time in the ‘90s, we were doing a TV show, and I had to talk to him about the arrangement of a song. Stevie’s brother Milton said, “You have one minute, and then I’m taking you out.” I went in there, and we were talking about the song. The one minute was up, and Milton came to pull me out. Stevie said, “No, no, no. Let him stay. He sounds like home.” He liked hearing the Detroit accent. It made him comfortable. We sat around talking for another half hour. It was the same with Glenn. Hearing that Detroit accent, we felt like brothers.