More than just about anyone I knew, Phil was always cognizant of the timeless things. That the energy of rock and roll would last forever as did the majesty and grandeur of Beethoven’s music. Never was the song seen as any lesser than the greatest art – and he knew songs were built to last.
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We met because I expressed my ignorance of his greatness – and his actual existence – in print. As the editor of SongTalk, the journal of the National Academy of Songwriters, it became my mission to interview the world’s great songwriters on songwriting. Jimmy Webb was among the first, and I knew his beautiful song, “P.F. Sloan” but had no idea Phil was a real person. I presumed that it was a song about a fictional songwriter designed as a symbol for all.
Jimmy, surprised at my admission, said, “No – see that’s the problem right there!” The problem being an editor of a songwriting journal would be unaware of this great songwriter. This was 1988, before the Internet made it simple to access information. Jimmy wasn’t the only one appalled. Within weeks of publishing the Webb interview and my admission, I was deluged with letters and packages, all informing me of the greatness of this one man. P.F. Sloan. They sent him his solo albums – which are absolute treasures – and albums of his songs by other artists and bands. I stood corrected. And told these fervent fans that if I could find him, I would bring Sloan to our pages.
But, as far as I could tell, he was gone. Disappeared. Nobody know where or why. Nobody had seen him for years. Some felt he died – perhaps in the Bombay alley he wrote about in “Secret Agent Man.”
But he was not gone. He was living in an apartment on the west side of town. As I learned one day when a young woman appeared in my office and said it was time for me to meet P.F. Sloan. I wasn’t sure if she was joking. She was not. Within a day I got a call from the man himself. “I think the universe wants us to get together,” he said.
And so we did. I made the trek to his home. We drank fresh carrot juice and spoke for hours. There was much sorrow there and also joy. I published my interview with him – to the great joy of his vast network of fans and friends – and invited him to take part in our big annual concert, The Salute To The American Songwriter, at the beautiful Wiltern Theater.
He accepted. Not without nervousness. He had not performed for years, and felt strongly than most of the industry was against him and would not embrace this performance. Although we had a great band, Phil elected to play solo.
He sang only a few songs. “Where Were You When I Needed You,” “Secret Agent Man,” “You Baby” and “Eve of Destruction.” He performed them flawlessly, with strength and great soul. Chills. The audience was stunned. P.F. Sloan was back, and better than ever. As great as those famous records were, nobody ever sung those songs like Phil. Standing ovation. Triumph. Love. The disappeared had emerged. And he stayed in the light for the rest of his life.
One time he broke down for me the elements that he saw which added up to a great song. In all is God – divine inspiration – in what he called the three principles to a song:
“There’s the fantastic inspirational lyric that can take you over,” he said, “even if the music is nothing; then there’s something that is so musically divine that that takes you over, and then there’s something with either the vocalist or the instrumental artist that is so divinely inspired that that takes you over. Then if you put all those three together, you have something that has juice that is going to last for a hundred years. “
But for some reason he chose a path in this life in which phones were hung up on him, and doors shut in his face. I remember being at a benefit for a musician who was dying from cancer. Many of us were performing in it, including some famous songwriters. Backstage – drawn like all musicians to free food – I ran into Phil. He was there with the great poet Stevie Kalinich, who has become a close friend.
It was always a thrill for me to see Phil in the flesh. As always he had that playful, mischievous expression – like he’d been up to something that wasn’t allowed but was very fun. I asked him if the host of the event knew of his presence, and if he’d consider playing a song. He said, “Not sure. I mean, sure, I’d play, but not sure…” He was not a man to push himself on other people, certainly not at this stage of his life.
So I ran breathlessly backstage till I found the host – himself a well-known songwriter and activist – and said “Hey – did you know P.F. Sloan is here?” He gave me that familiar expression of “So what?” I said – well if you got time – he will play a song!
The guy looked irked, said, “Sorry – we are already long.”
What? I was shocked. And had to tell Phil. He took it in stride, as if he expected it. As if he was sharing with me, “See this is how it goes being me.” Since Phil’s been gone I keep thinking back to that night and wishing I would have done more. I didn’t want to cause a scene. But look what was lost.
Yet he seemed to know that would happen. As if there was a black cloud over his head that I couldn’t see, so blinded was I by my love and reverence.
So I will admit, in the first days after his death, I was worried about him feeling uninvited. That he might be up there knocking on heaven’s door – but nobody’s opening up. That he might get lost – not knowing where to register or whatever mishigas is required. I had no doubt there’s a place for him. But worried maybe his own attitude would get in the way at first.
Fortunately a very spiritual friend of his – and someone who loved him very much – told me not to worry. That his name was on the guest list, and he was very much not uninvited.
*****
As Jimmy Webb wrote, “The last time I saw P.F. Sloan, he was summer burnt, he was winter blown, he turned the corner all alone, but he continued singing …”
The last time I saw PF Sloan was in Burbank. Not as poetic as the Webb song, but such a shining happy memory. He came to be the first guest for my Songwriters On Songwriting Live show at The Songwriting School of Los Angeles.
Pure joy. I drove into the parking lot of the school, typical sun-bright Angeleno day, and there was Phil, not unlike James Dean, alone, smoking a cigarette. Soon as I saw him and he saw me I saw that joy in his aspect – that gleam in his eye – that leprechaun-like twinkle of mischief – ready to spring into conversation.
