You’ve been described as a “romantic fatalist.” Here’s an interlude from Requiem for an Almost Lady: “It’s been said that all good things are made in Heaven/But I have a feeling that the first time we said ‘I love you’ to each other/The gods must’ve turned their backs and laughed out loud.”
If it’s a great love song, I probably didn’t write it!
You wrote hits for everyone from Nancy Sinatra to Elvis, Dean Martin and Dusty Springfield ...
You’ve gotta take gold records for what they’re worth. And they’re worth about $1.30. Years ago, I kept all that junk in my house, in the bathroom. They were everywhere. When you turned on the light, it was just blinding. People would forget to zip up their pants and everything else, they’d come out and say, “What is that, Lee?” I’d tell ’em, and they’d go look. “Oh, I know that song, and I know that song ...” But I quit doing that, because it annoyed the housekeeper.
Phil Spector studied your studio techniques; you’re a wizard of a producer.
I may be a nervous wreck outside of those eight notes, [but] when those sharps and flats go out and the words go in ... I know my language pretty well. I’m real secure in my world. But, you know, if something’s wrong with one of the cars, or something like that, I get pretty insecure askin’ the son of a bitch to fix it. See, when I grew up, you could fix a car with a screwdriver and a pair of pliers!
Going back to your first solo album, Trouble is a Lonesome Town, it’s apparent you’re a very keen observer of the world and the characters around you.
I didn’t notice that her dress was pretty, but I did notice that there was a slight run in her hose. Whenever I’m with people, I listen more than talk. And every so often, they’ll come up with a line I’ll write down and keep. Sometimes as far as a year or two later, I’ll go, “Oh, I should write somethin’ about that.” And I do.
How do you write songs?