P.F. Sloan, 1945 – 2015

Teamed up with the elder Steve Barri to write songs, Sloan was in his essence. “I was in electricity. When we would sit down to work, it was magic, it was electric.” They spent two years writing together, with Sloan working 18 to 20 hours a day crafting words and music. Their first record was “Kick That Little Foot, Sally Ann” by Harry Belafonte. Sloan was 15 when it was recorded. They also wrote a string of hits for many groups, including “Take Me For What I’m Worth” by The Searchers, “Let Me Be” and “You Baby” for the Turtles, and “Where Were You When I Needed You” for The Grass Roots.

Sloan, being a great and soulful singer, sang lead vocals on all the demos. These recordings were used as the first record by the Grass Roots. But when it hit the Top 40, the record company did not want Sloan to be the star, and removed his vocal. An existing band – The Thirteenth Floor – was brought in to become The Grass Roots. Here Sloan’s greatest dream was to be the singer of his songs, like his idol Bob Dylan, and it was snatched away. Their biggest hit, “Where Were You When I Needed You,” also a hit decades later for The Bangles, is essential P.F. Sloan. About love, romantic love, spiritual love, and God. As always, his pop songs were deeper and more dimensional than expected.

Not only a gifted singer, he was a great guitarist, and a master of classic riff, most famously in the intro to “Secret Agent Man.” He brought that magic to a lot of records, even those he didn’t write or produce, such as The Mamas and The Papas anthem, “California Dreamin,’” written by John and Michelle Phillips. Produced by Lou Adler, the track was in need of the perfect intro, a suspended chord flourish which Phil both concocted and executed to open the song.

The seeds of his ultimate disappearance remain mysterious. It was during this time, the missing years, that Jimmy Webb wrote “P.F. Sloan,” and it became in 1971 a big radio hit for The Association. Hearing it didn’t buoy Phil’s spirits, quite the opposite. He felt like the phantom star of a circus that long ago left town. “I was forced to play the tragic role,” he said, “instead of the comedic role, which is more to my nature.”

For awhile, the shadows completed obscured the light, and he drew a sharp distinction between P.F. Sloan, the artist, and Philip Schlein, the Jewish kid from Queens. He felt that his connection with P.F.Sloan was a gift from God, and that gift was gone.

But that chapter ended, and he was found again. After our interview appeared, many doors opened for him, and he started writing songs again and more. He recorded a beautiful album of new songs called Sailover. And he spoke of two major projects he hoped to complete, and happily – completed both. One was an album called My Beethoven, about the great maestro, about the majesty of music itself, and about the burden of being a genius in the world. He had so much love and respect for Beethoven that his intent – which he realized – was to weave Beethoven’s own musical themes throughout the song cycle. He did what he did best – wrote songs on a theme – but connected those songs symphonically in a record of great orchestral grandeur. It was one of those projects that could go on for a decade and be incomplete. But he finished it. And it is a masterpiece.

He also said he was going to write a memoir – and he did. A wonderful book co-written with his gifted friend S.E. Feinberg, it is What’s Exactly The Matter With Me? Published by Jawbone Books, UK. It’s a book that reflects the full span of his life and outlook – it is hilarious at parts, heartbreaking at others, sometimes perplexing, and utterly compelling. He even bravely included stories he knew would cause most people to conclude he was a madman, such as the time he met James Dean in Hollywood, some two years beyond Dean’s death. But being called crazy, for him, was nothing remotely new, and he knew if anything, he had to be true to himself.

His love of Dylan, by the way, was powerful and ever-present up to the end. During our last supper together, with that familiar Sloan gleam in his eye, he asked what I thought of Shadows In The Night, the Dylan album of standards. I hadn’t heard it yet, nor given it much real thought. But he did. He had one of those minds – like many great songwriters – which thinks about everything, thoroughly and without end. Smiling, with an expression that happily invites disagreement, always open to healthy debate, he said, “I think it’s his dream album. The album he always wanted to make.”

Why?

“Because it showed his love of this craft – this level of songwriting – and lets the singer in him have a field day with these melodies.

Just as a joke, I opened my live interview at The Songwriting School with a question asking him to compare his two greatest heroes, Beethoven and Dylan. Dylan, I said, was clearly the better harmonica player, but who did he think was best over-all? It wasn’t a serious question, but Phil – recognizing the levity – still proceeded to seriously compare the two. That was who he was. Sure, it was a joke. But an interesting one!

He was a man who truly loved songs. He loved writing them, singing them, listening to them, and talking about them. He never stopped writing them, and this world is a better place because of that spirit, which is forever instilled in the words and music of his songs.

That music is eternal – that some spirits live forever – was foremost in his thoughts and his heart, and it sustained him as it sustains us now. “It’s living art captured for all time,” he said. “We were all flowing on that juice; all of us who were subjected to that cosmic rock and roll current that came through, we were all juiced from it. We literally changed the world.