One Last Mic Check With Phil York
See also: Phil York, legendary Dallas producer, dead at age 70
Thomas Fawcett Phil York in his home studio, 2009
Phil York and I crossed paths in summer 2009. I was researching the liner notes for the Heavy Light release of The Relatives' Don't Let Me Fall, a stunning revelation of Dallas gospel-funk from the early '70s, which York engineered at Autumn Sound Studio in Garland. My interview request was greeted with this email:
"Your request for an interview with me and my relatives would be difficult to arrange quickly. Some of them live in the far reaches of the USA. Furthermore, they don't all get along well. And, really, they're a boring lot. I cannot imagine a useful purpose in interviewing my relatives. Heck, I don't even like being around most of them and I work hard to endure family reunions as infrequently as they occur."
He was kidding. York remembered The Relatives. He remembered everything.
York was not a household name in Texas music. Sound engineers seldom are. Yet few had a bigger impact on local music over the last 50 years than the Dallas native, who died August 4 at the age of 70.
Over the course of five decades, York earned three Grammys, two gold records and reached the charts with artists as diverse as Willie Nelson, R&B vocal trio the Van Dykes, Helen Reddy and singer-turned-televangelist Kenneth Copeland. More recently, his expertise in audio restoration made him sought after by reissue labels.
York graduated from South Oak Cliff High School in 1960 and dove headfirst into the music business shortly thereafter. He first sat behind the boards at South Dallas R&B studio Sonic Productions before learning the ropes from legendary Longhorn Ballroom impresario Dewey Groom at Echo Sound in Mesquite.
"I loved the crooners and big bands and still do, but here I am in Texas in the late '60s, wanting to be in the music business," he said. "I was not a listener of country music. To me, it was sort of hick-y and all about drinking and killing and dying and cheating. I wasn't fond of it. I was 19 or 20 years old, so I wanted the latest stuff: Top 40, Elvis Presley, The Coasters, The Platters, The Drifters."
York nearly scared off a client dressed to the nines in Western wear, spurs and all, when he asked the lap steel guitarist if the band would be playing Hawaiian music.
"I realized at that point I'm in Texas and there's going to be plenty of country music, and boy there has been. I've learned to really love it and appreciate it."
After he started freelancing at Autumn Sound in the mid-'70s, York called in a favor to Dallas native Mickey Raphael, Willie Nelson's harmonica player.
"I heard a rumor that Willie was tired of recording in Nashville," York related. "He was looking for a place to record, hopefully in Texas. I invited them in for a free session at Autumn Sound. No strings attached, no cost. Just come on in and see if you like it. Willie's sister, Bobbie, absolutely fell in love with that Bösendorfer piano. Who wouldn't? At the time, it was bought for $17,000 and that was the discount price."
The pitch worked and soon the band was back to record Red Headed Stranger. Here, York relates the story of how a seminal song came to be.
"Willie had been up in Bear Creek, Colorado, in a cabin, and he had made a cassette of the whole album, just he and his guitar. The band had never heard this stuff when they got in the studio. He started up on 'Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain' and everybody was jamming. The drums were going with the steel guitar licks, and all the players. Willie said, 'All right, I'm gonna play this song with just me and my guitar. If you can't add something really good to it, don't play.'
"The drummer got up and left. The steel guitar player got up and left. The lead guitar player got up and left. We did one take, maybe two, just bass, Willie's guitar, harmonica. That's the way it went out."
A year later, Nelson and York were in the studio cutting The Sound in Your Mind when some Nashville suits from Columbia Records called requesting the original Stranger tapes. They wanted to dress the song up for a CMA television show.
"He just said two words," York recalled of Willie. "The first one starts with 'F' and the second starts with 'Y,' and BANG!, he hung up the phone.
"In Texas, Willie could get away with whatever he wanted. It was artistic freedom. My little contribution to that -- it wasn't great -- but I tried to help him capture his creation, not tell him what he should be doing."