Since you’ve got to go, you’d better go now

In the summer of 1971, Paul McCartney was ready to form his own band.

Since the breakup of The Beatles in late 1969, he had partnered with his wife Linda on the solo debut “McCartney” and utilized New York session musicians to embellish the tracks on the follow-up LP “Ram.” But if he was going to fulfill his goal of going back out on the road to perform concerts, he needed a couple of guitarists and a drummer willing to make a more long-term commitment.

He asked drummer Denny Seiwell and guitarist Hugh McCracken, who had participated on the “Ram” sessions. Seiwell was amenable, but McCracken declined, citing a need to be near his young family in the U.S. McCartney kept looking, and noticed in the New Musical Express, the British music magazine, that the Midland band called Balls was breaking up. A light went on when McCartney recalled the guitarist/singer in that group was an old friend. His name was Denny Laine.

McCartney was thrilled when Laine eagerly accepted, which initiated a hugely successful ten-year run as bandmates in Wings, marked by eight Top Ten albums, more than 15 Top 20 hit singles and several successful tours. Other members of Wings came and went during that decade, but Laine remained the loyal sideman throughout.

Laine died this week at age 79 of lung disease brought on by COVID-19.

“Denny was a great talent and a kind guy with a fine sense of humor,” said McCartney in the wake of Laine’s death. “We wrote some songs together and had a great deal of respect for each other. We had drifted apart since Wings disbanded, but we re-established our friendship in recent years and shared memories of our many times together. It was such a pleasure to work with him.”

Laine was born Brian Hines in Birmingham, England, where he showed a talent for guitar and eventually became frontman and singer of his own group, Denny and The Diplomats, in the early ’60s. (His stage name, he said, came from combining his sister’s favorite teen idol, Frankie Laine, with the nickname Denny because he was always hanging out in his family’s den.) By 1964, Laine left the Diplomats when he was invited by Mike Pinder and Ray Thomas to join their new group, The Moody Blues.

The early Moody Blues, with Laine at center

Laine’s arrival as their lead singer coincided with the band’s first taste of success, the single “Go Now,” which reached #1 in the UK and #10 in the US in early 1965. Laine first met McCartney at that point when “Go Now” earned The Moody Blues a spot on the bill as one of the warmup acts for a Beatles tour of Britain. Their debut LP, “The Magnificent Moodies,” included some Laine originals and several R&B covers, all featuring Laine’s Merseybeat vocals. The album failed to chart, and subsequent singles stalled as well, precipitating Laine’s departure. (The Moody Blues, of course, went on to stardom with singer/songwriter Justin Hayward as Laine’s replacement.)

Laine, meanwhile, formed The Electric String Band, playing a hybrid of classical and rock genres, and McCartney was in the audience when that group warmed up for the Jimi Hendrix Experience in London in 1967. Laine also wrote and released a few solo singles, most notably “Say You Don’t Mind,” which later became a UK Top 20 hit for Zombies singer Colin Blunstone in 1972. By 1969, Laine joined Balls, which included alumni from British bands like The Move and Spooky Tooth, but little of their recorded work ever saw the light of day. Laine also spent a few months on tour in 1970 with Ginger Baker’s Air Force, offering guitar and vocals in the large jam band led by the former Cream drummer.

According to Allan Kozinn’s book “The McCartney Legacy (Volume 1),” McCartney’s phone call in 1971 came as Laine was struggling and practically homeless, writing songs as a staff writer for Essex Publishing. “I’m hoping to form a band,” McCartney said. “Do you fancy doing something?” Laine recalled, “I wasn’t at all happy with what I was doing and thought, ‘This is just one of those twists of fate.’ I flew up to his farm in Scotland the next day.”

Laine quickly realized that although McCartney said he wanted the new group to be “a band of equals,” it was clearly going to be Paul’s group, Paul’s songs, Paul’s arrangements and Paul’s star power as a former Beatle that would dominate the proceedings. While drummer Denny Seiwell was skeptical about novice Linda McCartney handling keyboard duties, and hoped to persuade them to hire a professional keyboardist, Laine was more accepting. “She wasn’t a musician and never really wanted to be,” he said, “and being on stage scared her. But she was Paul’s wife, and served an important role as a sounding board for his ideas.”

Drummer Denny Seiwell, Linda and Paul McCartney, and Laine in 1971

Wings had the absurdly difficult task of helping McCartney move past the trauma of The Beatles’ breakup. “It was always in the back of our minds,” Laine recalled in 2019. “How do you follow the Beatles? It was purely just a fact of getting a band that could sound pretty good live, which we did…It was easier for me because he and I knew each other pretty well. We had the same attitude toward it all, and we knew that if we just played live as much as possible we’d get good, and that includes the studio performances.”

Still, it was a rocky beginning. The lame debut album “Wild Life” was vilified, after which Henry McCullough joined on second guitar in 1972 and Wings undertook a few tentative, unannounced gigs at universities around England to hone their chops. A strange trio of singles followed: McCartney’s foray into political protest, “Give Ireland Back to the Irish,” which was banned by most UK radio; a creative but slight interpretation of the children’s song, “Mary Had a Little Lamb”; and a gutsy pro-pot rocker called “Hi Hi Hi,” which was also too provocative to get much airplay.

Laine (front, center) with Wings in 1973

Things improved for Wings in 1973 with “Red Rose Speedway,” their first #1 LP in the US, carried by the strings-laden ballad “My Love,” also reaching #1. Concurrent with those wins was the over-the-top dramatic production of the theme song for the latest James Bond film, “Live and Let Die,” and a TV special called “James Paul McCartney.” Laine played a key role in all these projects and yet was also putting finishing touches on his first solo LP, “Ahhh…Laine,” compiling tracks he’d been writing over the previous seven years in an effort to satisfy earlier contractual obligations.

When McCartney insisted on heading to Lagos, Nigeria, to record the next album, Seiwell and McCullough both said no thanks, which meant Wings was now a trio, with just the McCartneys and Laine. Under trying circumstances in a sometimes hostile environment, the threesome cobbled together ten songs that became “Band on the Run,” widely regarded as the crown jewel in the Wings catalog.

Years later, Laine admitted that he was disappointed that Wings rarely recorded any of his songs. “Perhaps it wasn’t reasonable to expect that, seeing as how Paul is one of the most accomplished songwriters of all time. At least I was given the chance to sing lead vocals on a song or two on most of the Wings albums, and we included ‘Go Now’ in the setlist during the ‘Wings Over America’ tour in 1976.”

Laine (left) on acoustic 12-string in concert with the McCartneys, 1976

Laine was something of a jack-of-all-trades in the Wings lineup, contributing electric and acoustic rhythm guitar, occasional lead guitar, bass, harmonica, percussion, and lead and backing vocals. He wrote, co-wrote and/or sang lead vocals on these deep album tracks: “I Lie Around” (the B-side of “Live and Let Die” single); “No Words” (from “Band on the Run”); “The Note You Never Wrote” and “Time to Hide” (from “Wings at the Speed of Sound”); “London Town,” “Children Children,” “Deliver Your Children,” “Don’t Let It Bring You Down” and “Morse Moose and the Grey Goose” (from “London Town”); and “Again and Again and Again” (from “Back to the Egg”).

By far the most lucrative song on Laine’s resumé is “Mull of Kintyre,” the 1977 Scottish ode he co-wrote with McCartney that become a virtual anthem all over Europe. As a Wings stand-alone single, it was ridiculously popular in the UK, becoming one of the biggest hits of all time there, although it got almost no traction in the US.

In 1980, when McCartney was arrested in Japan for marijuana possession and forced to cancel the Wings tour, he chose to close the books on Wings, but Laine turned up to help on sessions for McCartney’s “Tug of War” and “Pipes of Peace” LPs in 1982-83. Financial disagreements caused a period of estrangement between the two that went on for decades, so Laine resumed his mostly lackluster solo career by releasing five albums between 1980 and 1988, although none charted in the US.

In 1996, he released “Wings… at the Sound of Denny Laine,” on which he re-recorded Wings songs he had written or co-written, plus a few Wings hits like “Silly Love Songs” and “Listen To What the Man Said.” Laine continued to perform regularly through the years, and participated in numerous live shows in 1996-2002 as part of a loose confederation known as World Class Rockers, which had a changing lineup that included the likes of Spencer Davis, Camine Appice, Nick St. Nicholas, Bobby Kimball and Randy Meisner.

Laine performing in 2018

In 2018, he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a member of the Moody Blues after he was initially left off the list of inductees. “I thought [the rest of the band] deserved it because of the amount of work and their popularity, and I thought, ‘Well, that’s the way it goes,'” he told a reporter. “Obviously, I’m very pleased I’m in there after all. It’s an honor. I think I’m at least a little part of their story, so I feel very content, really, that it’s all come full circle now.”

Laine is survived by five children from previous wives, and his wife Elizabeth Mele, to whom he was married only six months before he died.

Famous musicians ranging from Nancy Wilson of Heart, Axl Rose of Guns ‘n Roses, Mickey Dolenz of The Monkees, Dave Davies of The Kinks, Christopher Cross and Steve Van Zandt all made fond public statements honoring Laine and his contributions. Said Mike Pinder of The Moody Blues: “I will remember Denny’s fun-loving sense of humor and the musical collaboration we shared. My first foray into professional songwriting was with him. Our creative collaboration was inspiring and our future was unfolding. It was such an exciting time in our lives.”

Rest In Peace, Denny. You left a fine legacy in the world of classic rock.

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The Spotify playlist below offers an overview of songs by the early Moody Blues and Wings in which Denny Laine made significant contributions, as well as samples of his lesser known solo recordings.

If we couldn’t laugh, we would all go insane

“I just left the planet Earth. Where I go, I hope there’s rum!”

This line from the title track of Jimmy Buffett‘s popular 1979 LP “Volcano” succinctly captures the deft way this talented and beloved man could merge whimsy and reality in his song lyrics, usually to a captivating calypso beat.

Millions of music lovers — particularly “Parrotheads,” those legions of devoted Buffett fans who have worshiped at the Margaritaville altar since they first heard him in the mid-1970s — have spent the past week cranking up his music as they mourned the loss of their good-life leader. As one newspaper account put it the day after we all heard of Buffett’s passing September 1 at age 76: “It’s somehow appropriate that Jimmy Buffett’s death emerged at the beginning of the Labor Day weekend, the point of every American summer’s symbolic end. For so many, he embodied something they held onto tightly — the promise of an eternal summer.”

The fact that this beach-loving musician died of skin cancer was not lost on one of his good friends, who noted matter-of-factly, “He lived his life in the sun, literally and figuratively.” Ever since he first visited Key West, Florida, in 1971 (documented in his song “I Have Found Me a Home”), Buffett has celebrated and championed the tropical, carefree lifestyle of those who spend their lives outdoors in sunny climes.

His music and his warm, positive personality touched so many, including dozens of fellow musical travelers who spoke out last week with words of praise. James Taylor had this to say about Buffett: “He invented his own character, which, in a sense we all do: invent, assemble, inherit, or fall into our inner identity. But Jimmy was the founder of an actual tribe: tens of thousands of us made our way to where he was holding court, just to be near him. There was no defensive macho bullshit, just a model of how to enjoy the great gift of being alive. And that’s what he shared so generously with us: a positive enthusiasm for being here.”

Buffett wrote a great deal about (as his 1992 box-set title put it) “Boats, Beaches, Bars and Ballads,” and although many were party tunes that urged us all to have a good ol’ time, he was capable of creating some touching tributes and melancholy memories as well. Even his signature song “Margaritaville,” for all its steel-drum/marimba arrangement and singalong vibe, is essentially a sad tale of losing a girl over too much excessive partying. Still, as Buffett once told his brother-in-law Tom McGuane, “It’s not in my nature or personality to be a dark poet. I see my role as being lighthearted, giving people a bit of island life.”

Indeed. As singer/songwriter Brandi Carlile said the other day, “He was a legend for having fun. I learned a lot from Jimmy just by living in a world that he put art into. He once told me, ‘There are no excuses for not finding some way to make yourself happy.’ What a legacy!”

Born in Mississippi and raised in Alabama, with a grandfather who was a steamship captain and a father who was a marine engineer and sailor, Buffett was exposed to sailing and the sea almost from his first breath, and it made a lasting impression on him in multiple ways, not the least of which was through song titles like “Son of a Son of a Sailor.” He learned how to play guitar in college, befriended musicians and writers, and quickly discovered he wanted to devote his time to writing and playing music, but he had learned he needed a day job to allow for that sort of self-indulgent life. Playing to his strengths, he became a first mate for a while on an industrialist’s yacht harbored in Key West.

He had recorded his debut LP, a country-tinged folk rock album called, appropriately enough, “Down to Earth,” in Nashville in 1970, but it made nary a ripple in the musical waters at the time. In 1973, he won a contract with ABC/Dunhill, and his first effort on that label — “A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean” — started getting airplay, thanks to happy-go-lucky songs like “Grapefruit – Juicy Fruit” and the risqué “Why Don’t We Get Drunk (and Screw).”

Said label mate Joe Walsh last week, “Jimmy was an immediate friend from the day we met. He got signed to the same record label as the James Gang, Three Dog Night and Steppenwolf. We all had a good laugh wondering what the hell he was doing there with such a motley crew. But he showed us all that he was built to last. A great sailor, a good friend and a man who did a lot of good for this world while nobody was looking.”

Its follow up, “Living and Dying in 3/4 Time,” included his first Top 40 hit, the gentle “Come Monday,” but the album stalled at #175. He started making serious headway on the album charts in 1975 with “A1A,” which peaked at #25 and kicked off a run of classic Buffett releases over the next five years that achieved platinum or gold sales figures. Not coincidentally, “Margaritaville” hit the Top Ten during that period, the only song in his career to do so.

The thing that appealed the most to me about Buffett was his way with words. Sure, the good-time melodies almost always put me in a great mood, but I adored his rare gift for comically poignant storytelling, and his knack for coming up with clever puns and turns of phrase in his lyrics and song titles. Consider these: “The Weather is Here, Wish You Were Beautiful,” “The Wino and I Know,” “Last Mango in Paris,” “Please Bypass This Heart,” “Off to See the Lizard,” “I Heard I Was in Town,” “Tryin’ to Reason With Hurricane Season.”

His songs were funny, smart, sweet and nostalgic. Some of them exemplified his easygoing philosophy to such a degree that, if they weren’t autobiographical, they certainly could’ve been: “Growing Older But Not Up,” “Life is Just a Tire Swing,” “Jolly Mon Sing,” “King of Somewhere Hot,” “I Love the Now,” “A Pirate Looks at Forty,” “I Will Play For Gumbo.”

His album sales dropped off a bit in the ’80s, but his concerts routinely packed ’em in with fun-loving, hard-drinking music lovers who found his party vibe irresistible. What the revelers may not have known is that Buffett was actually a savvy guy who knew when the time had come to dial it back. In 1989, he said, “I could wind up like a lot of my friends did, burned out or dead, or I could redirect the energy. I’m far from old, but I’m getting older. It was fun, all that hard drinking and hard drugging. No apologies. I just don’t do the things I used to do. That period of my life is over.”

His albums since 1990 or so continued to bring on the fun, and he toured incessantly because he enjoyed it. Along the way, he put his music-making work ethic to use and became a shrewd businessman, turning his persona into a brand that made him, in the end, a billionaire.

“I discovered that Chi Chi’s Restaurant chain had copyrighted the word ‘Margaritaville,'” Buffett said in a 2020 interview. “I actually had to reach a settlement with them to use the name of a song I had written! Then some woman in Hawai’i had copyrighted ‘Cheeseburger in Paradise.’ I was being ripped off everywhere because I wasn’t paying attention. There was demand there, and everyone was exploiting it but me. So I learned a lesson. If you want the carefree beautiful beach life admiring sunsets, you better damn sure take care of business or you’ll never get there.”

In addition to the Cheeseburger in Paradise restaurants, his Margaritaville brand graced cruises, resorts, casual clothes, outdoor furniture, packaged foods, beverages, bar and pantry products, even senior living facilities. Those who were turned off by these capitalist ventures accused Buffett of “selling out,” but he saw it differently. In a 2018 article, he pointed out, “I think it was just the way I was brought up in a seafaring family. I could never hand the wheel over to someone else. I wanted to be in charge, like the captain of the boat.”

He also started working smarter, establishing his own record label (to increase his per-unit profit), owning his own custom-built tour buses (because renting them is way more expensive), and taking charge of his own merchandise. The last one he did not because he was greedy but because he figured he could do it better than the people who were selling concert t-shirts that spelled his name “Jimmy Buffet.”

Other top stars were eager to collaborate with Buffett in the studio. In 1994, he joined the parade of singers who lined up to record remote duets with Frank Sinatra, laying down a spirited rendition of “Mack the Knife” that Sinatra claimed as one of his favorites from that project.

Country star Alan Jackson persuaded Buffett to re-record “Margaritaville” with him in 1999, which performed only modestly on the country charts, but then the two stars teamed up again in 2003 on “It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere” (written by Jim “Moose” Brown and Don Rollins), which not only reached #1 on the country chart and #17 on the pop charts but entered the popular lexicon as a phrase that rationalizes partying at any time of day. Buffett topped the country charts a second time eight years later when he joined forces with Zac Brown Band in 2011 on “Knee Deep.”

For those who maintain (or assume) Buffett’s later work wasn’t as strong as his classic ’70s material, I strongly suggest you check out albums like 2004’s “License to Chill,” which features duets with Jackson, Toby Keith, Clint Black, Kenny Chesney and Martina McBride, and 2013’s “Songs From St. Somewhere,” a delightful collection that includes “Too Drunk to Karaoke,” “Useless But Important Information” and “Oldest Surfer on the Beach” (written and featuring guitar by Mark Knopfler).

In 2020, Buffett participated in the “Willie Nelson – American Outlaw” TV special, singing Jimmy Cliff’s “The Harder They Come” and joining in the rousing closer, “Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die,” with an all-star chorus of major stars.

Buffett is survived by his wife of 46 years, Jane, and three adult children.

I end this tribute with a bit of good news. There will be some new Buffett material released later this fall, songs he recently wrote and recorded. Paul McCartney alluded to them in a touching recollection about Buffett he shared the other day. In case you didn’t see it, it bears repeating:

“I was on holiday and neglected to pack a guitar,” he recalled. “Jimmy said he’d get me one of his, but I reminded him that I’m left-handed. He had his roadie restring one of his and loaned it to me for the whole week. He then followed this act of generosity by giving me my own beautiful left-handed guitar that had been made by one of his pals. Every time I play it now, it’ll remind me of what a great man he was. He had the most amazing lust for life. When we swapped tales about the past, his were so exotic and lush, involving sailing and surfing and so much else, it was hard for me to keep up with him.

“His songwriting ability was extraordinary. He played me some of his new songs earlier this year, and I was happy to have played on one of his last records, ‘My Gummy Just Kicked In,’ based on a remark he heard someone say. Another one I love is called ‘Bubbles Up,’ where he turned a scuba diving term into a metaphor for life. If you’re confused and disoriented and don’t know where you are, just follow the bubbles, and they’ll take you up to the surface and straighten you out.

“So long, Jim. It was a great privilege to get to know you. Bubbles up, my friend.”

If you grew up where I did in Cleveland, Ohio, or any of dozens of other non-coastal locations around this country, there was no better way to get “a bit of island life” than to drop the needle on one of Buffett’s albums, or better yet, go see him in concert at an outdoor venue, as I did twice, in 1982 and 1990. The days of kicking back at a Buffett show may have come to an end, but his music lives on forever.

R.I.P., Jimmy. May you be enjoying a cheeseburger in paradise today.

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