50 Albums Later, There’s Still a Bit of Luck Left in Herb Alpert’s Trumpet

Born on the East Side of Los Angeles in Boyle Heights during the Great Depression, Herb Alpert is a first-generation son of Jewish immigrants. His father, Louis, was a skilled mandolin player and his mother, Tillie, was a trained violinist. Even his siblings, David and Mimi, were musicians, developing formidable talents on the drums and piano, respectively. As an eight-year-old California kid, Alpert picked up the trumpet and, after years on the Fairfax High School gym team, made the instrument his full-time concentration—a vocation that would take him to USC, where he’d join the Trojan Marching Band and then, while serving with the Army in the Korean War, played in the 6th Army Band. He even nabbed an uncredited role as a drummer in The Ten Commandments.

But the Herb Alpert I’m familiar with is the one I heard in-between the cardboard of an album called Whipped Cream & Other Delights. I saw the album—and its cover, which featured a naked, three-months-pregnant Dolore Erickson covered head-to-toe in whipped cream—on a shelf at an antique store more than a decade ago and was immediately fascinated. I heard “A Taste of Honey,” which I had only known as a Beatles song before that, and “Ladyfingers,” and my whole world cracked open. I was a novice when it came to jazz enjoyment. I owned the essentials—Kind of Blue, A Love Supreme and Chet Baker Sings—but I had not experienced Alpert’s anodyne music so intimately.

Of course, “A Taste of Honey” and “Ladyfingers” were songs that—much like his other beloved tunes with the Tijuana Brass, like “Spanish Flea” and “Casino Royale”—lingered in the public consciousness, even if you couldn’t identify those smooth, easy-on-the-ears jazz nuggets by name. “Ladyfingers” is especially gravitational, a composition that should remain a template of genius for musicians of any genre for the rest of recorded time. For a long time, there was no Tijuana Brass—just Alpert overdubbing out-of-sync trumpet parts as substitutes for the real thing. But, eventually, after Whipped Cream became so popular, he had to assemble a real-life band—Tonni Kalash, John Pisano, Nick Ceroli and Pat Senatore—to mimic the Wrecking Crew’s studio sounds out on the road.

It wasn’t until 2013, when I was only 15 years old but firmly in my first ever phase of jazz appreciation, that I heard “This Guy’s in Love With You” for the first time—as it fell out of a turntable’s speakers in the third episode of Bates Motel. By now, I listen to so much music that I am not so easily captivated by one particular song anymore. But few experiences have ever stacked up with hearing “This Guy’s in Love With You” with an unrefined, amateur music taste. I had not yet discovered many artists on my own, until that song entered my orbit. It became my tabula rasa, a truly once-in-a-lifetime “right place at the right time” moment—a conviction and mantra Alpert himself definitively lives by. It may sound far-fetched that a teenager in rural Ohio’s favorite song was a #1 hit from 1968 that remained at the top of the Hot 100 for four weeks before getting ousted by Hugh Masekela’s “Grazing in the Grass,” but intrigue is a funny thing and discovery is one potent cocktail of joy.

Once upon a time ago, I collected every Tijuana Brass album I could get my hands on, intensely stopping at every thrift store or antique mall in my proximity with an eye fixated on finding a copy of The Beat of the Brass. I needed “This Guy’s in Love With You” on wax and, after a few years of searching, it landed in my hands via a musty corner of a shop in another state I was merely passing through while on my way to someplace much bigger and much bolder. That song, it’s the sound of romance, just as “Ladyfingers” is the sound of two feet walking toward the gates of Heaven. Alpert has been so integral in the ears of many, even long after he last said “hello” to the pop charts. Many artists, from Chicago to the Roots, have used Alpert’s brilliance as a launch pad. They have become stars in a galaxy his trumpet first snatched out of the sky at a time we can only now access through the music.

In the years after “This Guy’s in Love With You” went #1—and since he had a “personal crisis” in 1969 and disbanded the Tijuana Brass—Alpert enjoyed a period of stasis spent building a roster at A&M Records that, in retrospect, is pretty damn impressive: Cat Stevens, Procol Harum, Fairport Convention, Carole King, Joe Cocker, Humble Pie, Cheech & Chong, Styx, Supertramp, Peter Frampton, Squeeze, the Tubes, Nazareth and Free are some of the biggest names that popped in from the late 1960s through 1980. In 1977, A&M signed the Sex Pistols after EMI dropped them. A week later, A&M dropped the band, as well, a move that Alpert still doesn’t regret. In the ‘80s, Alpert and A&M passed on Prince but signed Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, the Police, Janet Jackson, the Human League, Falco, Oingo Boingo and the Ozark Mountain Daredevils. Few artists in the history of recorded music have put their taste-making talents on display so multi-dimensionally.

The final Tijuana Brass album to go Gold was Warm in 1969, and 10 years passed before Alpert found chart success again—in the form of Rise, a Platinum-certified record with a title track that became Alpert’s first #1 single since “This Guy’s in Love With You.” Three years later, he made Fandango and released the ever-eternal song “Route 101,” which remains one of his most beloved tunes more than 40 years later.

Earlier this autumn, Alpert released the aptly-titled 50, the trumpeter’s golden jubilee album and fifth project in as many years. The LP features interpretations of songs previously made famous by the Chords, Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra, along with compositions of his own, like “Dancing Down 50th Street.” If there ever was a maestro walking among us, his name is Herb Alpert. I had a chance to sit down with Alpert over the phone and chart his career, tracing his origins in the Los Angeles jazz scene to 50. Along the way, we talk about his time working with Burt Bacharach, the Wrecking Crew, Sam Cooke, and the Carpenters, selling more than 70 million records and letting the music take him someplace new more than half-a-century after releasing The Lonely Bull.

The following interview has been edited for clarity. 

Paste Magazine: Congrats on 50. How are you feeling about it?

Herb Alpert: I had no idea I did 50 albums. It caught me off-guard. How do I feel about it? I feel good. I’m still kicking and doing the stuff I love to do. I spend my day on the right side of my brain. I paint and sculpt and make music. It gives me pleasure, keeps me going.

How often do you go into the studio during the week?

Every day, every day.

This new album of yours, I love the interpretations that you’ve been doing. “Sh-Boom” by the Chords, “Baubles, Bangles and Beads”—I like Frank Sinatra’s performance of that song quite a bit.

How old are you?

26.

Oh, so you don’t remember the original “Sh-Boom?”

No. Tell me about your relationship with that song.

In high school, I was a classically trained trumpet player and I was not into pop music or blues, or anything that was happening. This was 1952, something like that. I heard this record come on the radio, and it stopped me. I remember sitting down on the bed and listening to it, thinking, “Wow, I like that. There’s something about that melody.” I didn’t really suss out what the lyric was saying but, now that I recognize the lyric, the lyric is pretty funky! It has some double-entendres in it. From that point on, I started listening to the blues. I started listening to more pop music. That turned me around a bit. That particular song—and that rendition by the Chords—that’s how I decided to see what I could do with it, to upgrade it and maybe put my horn on top of it but letting that original group sing behind me. That was the thrust of that.

What is it about working with such legendary material, even the Beatles’ “And I Love Her,” that speaks loudest to you?

I think, for me, it’s all about a good melody to even start fooling with a song. If I can play a good melody in a way that it hasn’t been heard quite that way before, that’s always been my goal. There’s no need to just reproduce a record that already has been done or a rendition that has been done. That’s one of the things that gets me excited about interpreting music in my own personal way.

Does that make it easier to not fail? If you know that you’re going to interpret it in your own way, does it make it easier to not worry about whether or not you’re meeting the expectations of what the source material is?

Oh, man, that’s a good question. I have no expectations. I have only expectations for myself. I’m a critic of one. I make music for just one person, and that’s me. And if I like it, great. If I don’t, toss it. If I get a good feeling from something I’ve recorded, I want to put it out there and see if anyone else does. If they like it, great. If they don’t, it’s still okay with me. I’m trying to express my own creativity to myself. This is what gets me off. This is what makes me want to wake up in the morning and fool around in the studio. I love the challenge.

You keep coming up with fresh perspectives, even when you’re playing off of some else’s take on a song. Does it become more obvious what it is you’re playing for as you keep making records? Or is it the idea of constantly tailing the unknown that becomes a necessary part of the clause in making music, even 50 albums in?

I’ve always tried to be as honest as I can be making the music that comes out of me. Music is healing. I think, when people hear a song or they like a record, their vibration changes. And I think there are some musicians that tried really hard to impress others—other musicians or people. I’m not into that. I like to just try and impress myself with what I can do and how I feel it fits into the picture and leave it at that.

I’ve been revisiting a lot of your early work, especially The Lonely Bull and South of the Border. I was even thinking about how The Lonely Bull came out at a time when, in my opinion, jazz was really booming. It was only a few years after Kind of Blue. Chet is Back was a major record. How open was the door for trumpeters to find success around that time, back in 1961 or ‘62?

I don’t think that there was an opening for trumpeters there in that particular period. But, here again, I found a really great melody and I didn’t step on it—I kind of improved it. I got this song from a guy named Sol Lake. It’s called “Lonely Star.” When he sent me this demo, I changed a couple things. I gave him full credit on the record, and I was trying to interpret this experience that I had in Tijuana at the bullfights. I never, ever, ever listened to mariachi music. I had nothing against it, but I never listened to it. There was a brass band in the stands that used to play fanfares in-between the experience of the bullfight. The matadors would come out, the picadors would come out, the bull would come out. There’d always be this other little fanfare that introduced each of them. I tried to interpret the feeling that I had in Tijuana on [The Lonely Bull].

I think the thing that put it over the top was I played it for some people, and one particular disc jockey friend in Los Angeles—who happened to be the #1 disc jockey in LA—and he said, “Where’s the hook?” I said, “Man, there ain’t no hook. It’s just instrumental music.” He said, “You need a hook!” I thought about that, I thought about the idea of a hook—because the pop songs of the day, there’d be a bridge where it would be embedded into your brain when it went over and over in the song. So I called this guy, Ted Keep, who was at Liberty Records—he had a library of interesting sounds, and I asked him if he had any sounds of Tijuana or at a bullfight. He says, “Yeah, man, I have a sound of 30,000 people screaming ‘¡Olé!’ at a bullfight.”

He let me use that, and I put it right up in the front part of that record, with the fanfare and the olés and bang! I think that was the hook that got people interested to start listening to it—because, usually, with instrumental music, the program directors will listen for 10 seconds and, if it doesn’t get them, they’ll toss it. This one, you couldn’t toss it. Right up front, there was a sound of 30,000 people screaming “¡olé!.” It set it up as a different type of song. When that thing took off, it took off like a rocket ship. That was the first record we released on A&M. We didn’t have a company. My partner, Jerry Moss—he was brilliant—he got on the phone and started calling different distributors around the country.

Then, distributors started calling us because the record was a success. One thing led to another, and then the consensus was, from most of the distributors, “Why don’t you guys just take the money and run? You guys got lucky with this record.” That intrigued me, because, yeah, I know we got lucky with the record, but I thought there was more to be had with this sound. When I heard that sound of my trumpet playing on that record, I knew I could take that sound to other songs and other grooves. So, instead of playing The Lonely Bull sideways, as a follow-up, I started experimenting with different types of melodies—that sound that I have on the trumpet. One thing led to another. It opened the door.

I want to talk about the West Coast atmosphere that you grew up with. I think a lot of people think of New Orleans and New York City and Chicago when they think about jazz music. But Los Angeles was so crucial. Central Avenue Corridor, the Lighthouse Cafe, Shelly’s Manne Hole—it was such a mecca. Can you tell me about growing up in the area and coming of age during what may just be one of the best times for jazz music ever?

There were a lot of great jazz musicians in LA. Of course, the ones on the East Coast were different—a little harder core—but there was this West Coast sound. When I was in high school, I used to go down and see the Gerry Mulligan Quartet—which was Gerry Mulligan and Chet Baker—when they were playing at a place called The Haig. I got intrigued, because, supposedly, the story goes that there wasn’t enough room for a piano on the bandstand where they were playing, so they didn’t use a keyboard. It was just bass, drums, trumpet and baritone sax. They had this lovely combination of jazz contrapuntal music, and it was a sound that captivated me. Chet Baker was a really good looking guy who was just very cool, and Gerry Mulligan was an extraordinary musician and arranger. Both of those guys were, I’m sure, a little bit out of it. I’m not sure what they were using, but when Gerry got up to the microphone—when they were taking a break—he’d kind of stare out into the audience in this glazed look. Into the microphone, he’d say “Shortly.” That was so cool. [Laughs]

One of the reasons why I’m on the phone with you is because my favorite song in the history of American music is “This Guy’s in Love With You.” It’s a very transportive song for me, so I wanted to ask you: Were you resistant at all to singing on the track after Burt Bacharach gave it to you?

Look, I was good friends with Burt. We were doing a television special with the Tijuana Brass and the director, Jack Haley Jr., said, “You know, it’d be nice if you could sing a song.” He was tired of photographing me with the trumpet in my mouth all the time. So, I said, “If I could find the song, I’d give it a shot.” I called Burt and told him the situation and asked him if there was a song he finds himself whistling in the shower. He sent me “This Girl’s in Love With You.” I liked it a lot, I thought I could handle it. Obviously, the gender needed to be changed. We decided to record it, and Burt did the arrangement. He played piano and Pete Jolly was the other piano player, who was a really fabulous jazz pianist in LA.

Usually, you just take a track and then the lead artist puts their voice or their instrument over it. That’s what I did. We had this track, we were going to the studio. I said, “Let me just see if this is the right key for me and how it feels,” because I wasn’t sold on doing it. I just thought I would try it, if I could record something that made sense. Burt was in the control room with the other musicians, so I sang this thing. I walked back into the control room; they said, “Don’t touch it.” I said, “Don’t touch it? It was just a demo. I just wanted to see how it sounds.” They said, “It sounds great.” It was one take that I took just singing it, and we added a little spice to it, with a double thing here and a double thing there—glamorized it a bit, to make it more radio friendly. And that was it. It caught me totally off-guard. And, the most incredible part of all that was that’s the first #1 record that Burt Bacharach and Hal David had—from the trumpet player who’s not really a singer.

Burt and Hal gave you “(They Long To Be) Close To You” as well, but you didn’t like the recording you made. Had you laid down a vocal on that and that was why you didn’t like it?

Yeah, I had the vocal on it. I thought it was pretty good; it was like a samba group. Larry Levine, who was the head engineer at A&M—who was a dear friend of mine—recorded most of the Tijuana Brass records. I asked him, as a friend, “Man, how do I sound singing this?” He said, “I think you sound terrible singing this.” So, I dropped it. I put it away. I didn’t even explore it. After he said that I lost my fastball, I gave it to the Carpenters. I gave it to Richard Carpenter in 1970 and it was good for them and good for us, as well. Their records are still selling—an amazing success story.

Did it take much convincing to have them sing on it?

Richard loved the song, and I had him do it over three times—because the first recording they had of it was with Karen playing drums, who was a fabulous drummer but not a recording drummer. She had a light sound and a light foot. The third time was the charm, when they got the Wrecking Crew involved—Hal Blaine on drums and Joe Osborn on bass. It got a little tougher, but Richard put together an amazing arrangement and, as they say, the rest is history.

What’s it like sitting in a room with the Wrecking Crew? They’re one of my favorite bands of all time—the best session players to ever come around.

It was an interesting group of people. They were all friends with each other. They were so comfortable to be around, and they were very flexible. Tommy Tedesco played all the guitars. He played ukulele, he played anything that had strings on it. Sometimes you say, “No, no, no, no, I don’t want that.” And you whisper something in his ear, like a rhythm, and he just played it right back at you. They were so accommodating; they wanted to be part of what the producer was doing, so they were only at the right place at the right time, but they had the right attitude and the right skill set.

And, of course, Blaine was a knockout when it came to getting a groove going. He was an amazing musician—they all were, that whole group of guys. They wanted to please the producers, and they certainly did that. They’d finish a Tijuana Brass session and then drive over to Capitol Records for a Frank Sinatra session. Whatever the music called for, they were up for it.

When you’re in a room with musicians who are that talented and that flexible, how does that challenge you as a player?

Do I get intimidated? [Laughs]

Not intimidated, but does being in an environment with people like that move you to take risks or step outside of your comfort zone—knowing that you’re in good company?

I try to respond to what I’m feeling. I used Leon Russell quite a few times. When I met Leon, he used to come to the session with short hair, suit and tie, and he’d sit at the piano and then look at me and say, “I don’t know what to do.” I said, “Don’t do anything. If you hear something, chime in! If you don’t, it’s okay.” Invariably, the groove would start, there would be something happening and, all of a sudden, Leon Russell would be tinkling away at something and, all of a sudden, he would establish this funky idea that transformed the music. Everybody zoomed into what he was up to. It was amazing, because you just never know what’s going to come out of creative musicians. Most of the time, they would think of something in the studio far beyond what I was about to do. They’d improve on an idea—a germ of an idea—that I had. But, as the ideas started formulating, they would do something that I would have never thought of.

So, I think the point is to be relaxed and be receptive to what other musicians are feeding you. The Wrecking Crew made me look good. When Hal Blaine came up with that bass drum on “A Taste of Honey” to start the rhythm again, after the bridge had slowed down to a stop, he did that and we thought we were just going to use it—just to give the musicians a heads up before they started playing. But that bass drum became part of the song. I never would have come up with that idea by myself.

You score a #1 hit with “This Guy’s in Love With You” and then, a year later, the Tijuana Brass disbanded. You’ve even said in the past that you were in a pretty big rut. The Brass were bigger than the Beatles in 1966. You sold all those records and scored those hits. You were at the top of the proverbial mountain once upon a time. But what don’t people really get about what happens when success doesn’t fix everything—when you get those accolades and, yet, you still find yourself wanting to put the trumpet down?

Over the years, I’ve met some of the greatest musicians—jazz musicians, great musicians—and most of the musicians I know, including myself, they’re insecure. I don’t know if I can describe insecurities.

“Route 101” is one of the most serendipitous pieces of music. When you think about songs that can offer that sort of portal to another human being, or another place, are there any songs that do that for you? What’s that one piece of music that is really key to your fountain of creativity?

I don’t really think about that, just the thing I’m working on is what gets me going at the moment. “Route 101,” I really like that song. It was written by Juan Carlos Calderón. Abe Laboriel was not only the bass player, but he played guitar on that, as well. There’s something about that song and the way it progressed and the way it was arranged—it keeps the interest going, it’s fun to listen to. I think that’s why my music has been successful through the years, to some people. It’s fun to listen to and it’s fun for me to play. When I get that feeling, it feels like, “Boy, there’s a magical thing happening.” Quincy Jones used to say, “You can take the best singers in the world and give them a lousy song, and it’s going to go nowhere.”

There’s something about, when you’re a musician, playing something that feels good. You could get a little goosebump and a good feeling and you’re just totally in the moment of your life when you’re playing it. There’s something magical about what happens when that happens. I was dear friends with Stan Getz, he was one of my best friends and he was a magical jazz musician. He was just beyond. He claimed he never played a note he didn’t mean. I don’t know if he could go that far, but you hear him warm up and you say, “Wow, I like that sound. That’s beautiful.” Then, he would take that beautiful sound and play notes that make you wonder, “Where did you find those?” That’s why jazz is so unique and so seductive. When you finally get on to the slipstream of liking jazz, you can weed out the real good players very easily—because the great ones have this authenticity that is impossible to duplicate.

Some of the old time jazzers that I knew—the old guys, like Louis Armstrong and Mulligan and Miles [Davis] and Stan—were putting it together in a different way. In the modern way, with Berklee School of Music, Manhattan School of Music, they all analyze what these old-timers were doing, how they approached different chords, how they used different modes to play. They weren’t as intellectual about it. They knew the chords, they knew the changes, they knew the thing. But they didn’t know why Coleman Hawkins played certain notes on certain changes.

So, when I worked with Stan Getz, he said, “Let me do something for you.” I said, “Sure, I’d like to learn how to play bebop. I didn’t play with [John] Coltrane and all the people you played with. I just want to get up to my own water level.” So I said, “Do you think I should do these 2-5-1 chords in every key?” That’s basic, man, like page one of study jazz—the 2-5-1 chords. Stan said, “What’s that?” Those guys didn’t think about breaking down—about how other musicians approached their jazz. They were coming from their heart. They were coming from a place of knowledge, but it was not an intellectual place.

You’ve said in the past that your pursuit in music is to make something that takes a listener someplace. I’ve been thinking about this 50th record of yours, and I imagine you’re already thinking about what will be record #51—

I’m halfway through!

I figured you were probably working on it. Do you hope that the music takes you to the same place as the listener?

Yeah, I never think about the listener. I’m always surprised. I was the “A” of A&M Records. This guy comes in, as they did many times—because in that period, in the 1960s, a lot of producers didn’t have an office and were just operating out of the trunks of their cars. Once they got a record that they liked, they would go to a larger company to have them distribute it. So, this guy comes in and plays this record for me. I hated it, man. I thought it was too long, out of tune. And I knew the original record. I was aware of the original record that happened, maybe 10, 20 years before, and I told the guy, “Look, man, I don’t get it.” But I didn’t tell him this, because I didn’t want to discourage anyone. I said, “Look, just because I ain’t getting the message here, don’t worry about it. You should go around to the other companies and see what everyone else thinks.” Anyways, I turned down “Louie Louie.” [Laughs] I have no idea what people are gonna like. I still don’t like that record, man. I don’t get anything about it.

But my point is, I just try to make good-sounding records. For me, I got a nudge when The Lonely Bull was happening. It was in the Top 10 in the country, around the world. I got a letter from this lady in Germany who thanked me for sending her on this vicarious trip to Tijuana. I chuckled when I saw it. I thought, “Wow, that record was so visual for her that she was transported 7,000 miles.” I always tried to make music that, for me, took me someplace. I got lucky. I’m very fortunate. I’m not underselling my talent, but you got to be lucky in this thing called the music business. Records are tougher than ever now. It’s a whole different thing. There are 100,000 new streams coming out every day. That’s the type of competition we’re in, so to try and figure out what people are going to like is tough. I just try to figure out what I like and leave it at that. I’ve been darn lucky with that one, as well.

I think luck is still even harder to find these days.

It’s much harder to find, but you’ve got to be at the right place at the right time. And you can’t plan for that. We have this jazz club in LA—Vibrato—and there’s so many great musicians just in LA that you never hear of. They’re wonderful musicians. They’re honest, they’re authentic. But it’s just tough to get to be heard, with all that’s going on at the moment.

Well, speaking of being in the right place at the right time, can you tell me one thing you remember about working with Sam Cooke?

Sam was a teacher. He had no idea that he was. He was instinctive. He was an artist, he was a gentleman, he was a beautiful human being. He used to walk around with a notebook filled with lyrics, and he was curious about what I thought about this one lyric that he wrote. He showed me the lyric, and I thought to myself, “Man, this is the corniest lyric I’ve seen in a long time.” I didn’t say that. I said, “What does the song sound like?” He picked up his guitar and started singing this corny lyric, and it transformed into something that was magical. It was beautiful. The whole thing changed with the melody he chose and where he put that lyric. The intent of him playing his guitar and singing this thing, it’s like, “Man, thank you very much.” It ain’t what you do, it’s the way you do it. That was a big deal for me, and I have Sam to thank for that.

He just said, “Herb, people are just listening to a cold piece of wax. It either makes it or it don’t.” [Laughs] I don’t know what he meant by that, but that’s what he said. He was real. Here’s the funny part of that big, big record that Lou Adler and I and Sam wrote called “(What A) Wonderful World”: That song, after we did it, Sam recorded it as a demo, just to see if he liked the record and if he thought it was good. The company put that demo track away in their vault and then, when Sam left Keen Records and went to RCA Victor and had this huge success, Keen pulled out that one record they had of Sam’s “Wonderful World”—that was a demo—and put it out. It’s the biggest single record that Sam ever had. So, you never know.

Matt Mitchell is Paste’s music editor, reporting from their home in Northeast Ohio.