![]() ![]() Rock music pre-Spector was Sun Studio in Memphis, doo-wop’s death rattle, and clean-cut Caucasian cats insipidly covering the work of black R&B acts whose “race records” rarely got play on the radio or bought by whites. Because Phil Spector changed my life before I ever knew his name, blew open my ears and touched my soul. Doing the story always was a long shot-he’s nearly as famous for being shy as he is for the music he made-but I was thrilled merely to have met and thanked him. In 1999, he did a brief thing with Esquire via e-mail after that, we kept in touch-e-mails, his post-Hall of Fame induction parties in New York, visits to his home when I was in L.A. I’ve been dogging Spector for years, hoping to write his story. He’s all right with VIP lollygagging: If the client has four grand an hour, young Bayar has the wide-open sky, a topped-off fuel tank, and the whole starry night ahead. ![]() He’s got the Huck Finn freckled grin and the Billy Budd blue eyes, and the grin doesn’t lose luster and the eyes never blink when I say, Oh, yeah, we might be waiting some. I know different: This baby goes nowhere until Phil Spector boards.Ĭaptain Bayar, fit, fresh faced, and apple-cheeked, happy as a clam, asks if I think we might have long to wait. that’s what the e-mail that came this morning said. The chartered Gulfstream, sleek and dark, all bone-white leather, burled walnut, and spotless, mirrored bulkheads sits alone on the tarmac. The moon’s a thin smile on a cloudless spring night in Los Angeles. You can find every Esquire story ever published at Esquire Classic. ![]() It contains outdated and potentially offensive descriptions of sex, ethnicity, and class. This article originally appeared in the July 2003 issue of Esquire. ![]()
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