When I first began writing songs, Manhattan’s Brill Building was the magnet that drew every hungry, starry-eyed songwriter. Music publishers waited in their dark, tiny offices while eager hopefuls like me knocked on their doors, ventured timidly inside, and said, “I’ve got a song. I think it’s a hit.” In those days, kids off the street could wander in and be assured of an audience. The first person to hear my masterpiece, “I’m Going to Peggy’s Party,” was named Sal Giancarlo. He was six feet four and 300 pounds and resembled a wrestler more than a man of musical taste. The needle went on the vinyl, and he listened, legs sprawled over his desk. After three or four bars, he abruptly yanked off the needle and said, “Buddy, this song doesn’t have enough fire. Passion. And remember,” he continued, delivering the worst possible advice any newcomer could receive, “ craft doesn’t matter in pop music. You have to feel it, and it’ll come out right.” [download]
Format : Ebook.Pdf
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