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Exclusive Excerpt: Gregg Allman My Cross To Bear (On Recording The Allman Brothers Band, Dickey Betts, Bill Graham…)

My brother always listened closely to me: I’d hit a lick, he’d hit the same one. I’d sing, and he’d back it. I’d hit a good lick, and he’d drive it on home in a very complementary way. Nobody has done that since the day he died. With other people, they believe that there has to be a guitar fill before and after the vocal line. Well, I’m sorry, but if you play a note so fast just to fit it in there, it’s just going to be one of a multitude of notes; it’s not going to create a lot of emotion or feeling. The longer that note or musical passage has to ring or linger, the more impact it has. Less is more, man.

When it comes to soloing, I’ve always felt you should get in, say what you have to say, and get out. One thing I love about Warren Haynes, who plays with us now, is that he’s always trying to get me to solo. Even though them two guitar players can solo from now until the fucking cows come home, he still wants me to take one.

Duane was the bandleader onstage, but he really let the band lead itself. When he held up his hand, the band stopped, because he wanted those door-slamming stops. He really believed in everybody stopping at exactly the same time, just like he wanted to start at the same time. We had some great door-slamming stops in the studio, and they need to be that way, more so than when you’re playing live, because live you can kind of trickle down to a stop and let the song just kinda die.

We’d gotten everything down to the point where we were ready to go into the studio, but our trip to New York City to record the first Allman Brothers album was a bittersweet situation. After doing three nights at a club called Ungano’s to get warmed up, we went into the studio. We were staying at the closest Holiday Inn to 1841 Broadway, which was the Atlantic Records offices. Most of Phil Walden’s acts were signed to Atlantic—everything that he had was either on Atlantic or Stax. Ahmet Ertegun, Jerry Wexler, and Phil were real tight.

A man named Adrian Barber, a well-dressed gentleman from England, was going to produce the record in one of the most famous studios ever. Ray Charles had recorded on the house Hammond organ, but I set up mine instead, because I couldn’t bring myself to play on the same Hammond he’d used.

They told us, “Make good use of your time, because you have enough money for two weeks.” I remember looking at the board, and it was so antiquated and small. A red light would go on when we were recording, and it made me so nervous that I’d fuck up. Mr. Barber couldn’t understand what bugged me about that red light, but I finally unscrewed the damn thing.