It’s better to have people that know each other, and Lee [Miles] and James [Gadson] knew each other well. Everybody’s capable of playing music, but it’s that thing of whether they’re capable of mentally getting on the same track of what you’re there to do.You know, you can do it twenty different ways, but which is the way that’s right for what you’re doing? It’s a real trick to not overplay. You guys had the studio to yourselves? No, during the day, [producer] Tommy LiPuma was there with George Benson. Early one day, I was walking down the hall and looked in the studio, and there’s this row of guitars, and I just about broke into tears. You would have done the same. I was like, “Who the hell’s in here?” All of a sudden, someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I turn around, and it’s George, you know? He goes,“You’re Terry, right? Come on in here. Have you ever played one of these?” He’s got an original [Gibson] L-5, no pickup, in pristine condition. “You gotta play it.” So I get up, take my jacket off, took my belt off. Don’t want to scratch it! Oh yeah, you know. Dan, it was the loudest guitar I think I’ve ever played in my life: 1938 to 1940 or so, I think, the original one. Then he’s like, “Now try this one,” like a little kid, you know. A real guitar nut, and his playing is just like butter. Then Graham comes walking in and goes, “Oh, you’re here!”And I was like,“Let’s go get a drink or something before we start, okay!?” [ laughs ] I read that you were friendly with Gilberto Gil? He stayed with me at the country house up in Cambridgeshire [England]. He loved it up there. It’s funny how we met. I obviously had his records and knew all about him, [Antonio] Carlos Jobim, and João Gilberto. And Luiz Bonfá? Oh yeah, that’s my idol.That’s [who cowrote the soundtrack to] Black Orpheus , my favorite album in the whole world.You just said the magic word. Well, the way I met Gil is I went to my attorney’s office, Bernard Sheridan, who’s a high-court barrister at the Old Bailey in London, wigs and all. So, I had an appointment with him, and he takes his wig off and puts it on a stand and sits down. He says,“Before we get to this contract, I have a question, a bit of a political problem. I need
your advice.” He says, “You know all the musicians, Terry. It’s come to my attention that this gentleman from Brazil needs some help—do you know Gilberto Gil?” I says, “Yes, that’s my whole thing!” He goes, “Really?” I said, “Yeah, I’ve got records of his, you wanna hear?” He says, “Yeah, we’ll get to that, but you know, Brazil, it’s a bit of a police state.”And Gil’s grown his hair long, and he’s like richer than the Beatles down there; he’s the big thing, right? “Anyway,” Bernard says,“they came into his hotel room where his kids and wife were and threw him down on the floor at gunpoint and told him he has twenty-four hours to get out of [Brazil]. Now it doesn’t seem like he’s really done anything, and he seems like a nice guy, but country after country has turned him down for political asylum. I feel a bit bad for him. Tell me a bit more about him.” I said, “You must have heard ‘Girl from Ipanema’? Well, his second cousin is João Gilberto who made that famous recording.” He goes,“Oh! That’s my wife’s favorite song.We’ve got to give him political asylum or my wife will never talk to me again!” Next thing I know, there’s Bernard on the cover of the Guardian , and he’s flown Gilberto and his whole family to England. Didn’t hear anything about it for a while until I was out doing the Isle of Wight Festival. I’m onstage looking out at the audience, and there are, like, 360,000 people, a sea of people. So I’m looking out as I play, and there’s this guy with big hair and he’s smiling, beaming, and I keep coming back to him. Everybody’s happy, but he caught my eye. So I get offstage and I’m hanging out, and all of a sudden through the mud comes this guy. He comes running towards me speaking in [Portuguese]. I’m like, “Huh?” He grabs me with a tear in his eye and says,“I Gilberto Gil.” I’m like,“Cha, I’ve been lookin’ at you for the last half hour!” I couldn’t believe it. We spent the next few days together, and he barely spoke a word of English.His favorite word was“di-o-bolical,” but he wasn’t clear on what it meant. He’d say,“Oh, look, that’s di-o-bolical.” I was like, “No Gil, that’s not what it means!”Within a year, he spoke fluent English. So he started coming up to my house. He’d get on the train from King’s Cross [in London], come up to Huntingdon, get a cab, and come over to my house. On his own. Well, first it was on his own, then it was with Caetano [Veloso], who’s now the biggest star in Brazil, and a guy called Julio who played cuica with car horns on it.Then
he brought some of his family up; the ladies were cooking in the kitchen. All this farofa and beans and bananas and chicken, all this stuff, unbelievable. So I’d end up with ten people in this little attached four-hundred- year-old cottage in the middle of this little village in the countryside, and I’ve got these raving Brazilians all doing Black Orpheus in the front room. Congas and all this, and people are going by my house on their bicycles going [ acts surprised ]—I mean, they know me, but they’re wondering what’s going on. [ laughs ] Anyway, it just grew and grew, and then one day, it’s pouring rain and I open the door, and there’s this Brazilian guy standing there. I’m like, “Another one!” I say, “Yep, can I help ya?” And he says, “I’m Carlos.” I say,“Oh, hi Carlos.” It’s pouring rain, but the fire is dimming, so I say,“Hey Carlos, before you take off your shoes, would you mind going to grab a few logs for the fire?” So he graciously goes and comes back with two logs, and I’m like, “No, no, get an armful!” So he says, “Okay, okay,” and goes back for more, hands them to me. I put them on the fire, and he takes his boots off and comes in. We’re all sitting around, Lindley and all of us,“Cup of tea?” right? And Gil says,“You know Carlos, right, Terry? You love all his music; you’re always playing his songs!” So I’m like, “Carlos?” That’s a pretty common name, I didn’t know. The man says, “Oh, really, I am humbled,” and I’m like,“Carlos?” And he says,“Yes, Carlos Jobim.” You could have knocked me over. I had to walk into the kitchen and take a few breaths.“Sorry about the wood, Carlos!” He says,“Oh no, do we need more?” I say,“No, don’t move—just play us a song.” He sat all night for the two days we were there, him and Caetano; they were very good friends. Luiz Bonfá was the mentor of Carlos Jobim. He worked on [ Black Orpheus ] with him. Bonfá told me he was only seventeen when he did that. Watching these two play their D-demented chords, I’m going,“Here we go again! I’m quittin’.” . Dan Ubick is a guitarist living in Southern California. He would like to thank Steve Tounsand, Devin Morrison, Ben Malament, Cree and Buddha Miller, Brad Stewart, Chris Goldsmith, Eric Lynn, Kelly Constantine and Terry Reid, James Gadson, Graham Nash, Josh Davis, and David Lindley for their time and tales.
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