Rocker Miller opens the vault for new box set
Rock ’n’ roll legend Miller is no softer in his 70s ... and shows no sign of changing a thing
Steve Miller should have nothing to complain about. But on a recent afternoon, sitting in the elegant patron’s room at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the singer and guitarist fires away when asked about his new album, Welcome to the Vault. The box set, released last week, is a fascinating dip into his archives — 52 tracks over 65 years, from a 1951 performance by blues legend T-bone Walker in his childhood living room to a 2016 jazz band reinvention of Miller’s Take the Money and Run.
Why did it take so long to put out his box? That’s when Miller brings up Gary Gersh, who ran Capitol Records back in the 1990s.
“Just a little gangster,” Miller says. “A complete, incompetent, lying piece of s---. And you know, that’s candy-coating it.”
Record business figures have always occupied a special space in Miller’s Rolodex of revenge. To him, they lie, steal your money and, worst of all, have no idea how to push your records.
Miller blames Gersh for what happened the last time he put out a box set, a career survey released in 1994.
There were several problems, from the release date to a production error on early pressings. Miller remembers Gersh ignoring his calls. “Gersh used to come and ski in Sun Valley (Idaho) and I was afraid I was going to see him and beat him to a pulp — because I would’ve, if I had seen him,” says Miller.
Miller has never shied away from conflict. In the ’60s, when any kid with a guitar would have killed for a record deal, Miller studied the fine print and resisted until the terms changed. In the ’70s, when he became an arena star, he nearly disappeared, refusing to put out music until he felt it was ready. Miller has not softened with age. Only three years ago, he turned his own Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction into a scathing and thoroughly entertaining takedown of the “gangsters and crooks” who are part of what he called a “private boys’ club.”
But speaking out has always been Miller’s way, and it hasn’t stalled his career. At 76, he can play as many gigs as he likes, his catalogue remains a consistent seller and he’s able to promote the music he loves through his relationships with the Met, where he serves on the visiting committee of the museum’s Department of Musical Instruments, and Jazz at Lincoln Center, where he’s on the board.
Miller’s hits occupy a special place in the classic rock canon, from his first No. 1, 1973’s The Joker, to his last, 1982’s Abracadabra. They have helped Miller sell more than 60 million albums over his career, including 14 million of his Greatest Hits 1974-78 album. That record is among the top 40 of all time, a few slots ahead of Abbey Road and Purple Rain.
Miller was deliberate in how he cracked the code of pop music.
“I had choices to make,” says Miller. “You have to be really disciplined, but at the same time you want to get this great, spontaneous feeling on the record and you know you’ve got three seconds to capture people’s attention at the very entrance of a song.”
Miller did not party at the Playboy Mansion or hang out at Studio 54. He tried cocaine once but reports that it “felt like I had rock salt in my sinuses.” He stopped drinking in his 30s when it became a time-killing crutch during late nights on the road.
In 1976, he even abandoned the hub of the record industry, moving to Oregon from California. Miller’s most powerful weapon was always his willingness to walk away from any offer. If you ran a record company, you also couldn’t win him over with flattery. One night, at a restaurant in Beverly Hills hotspot, Capitol saluted him by presenting a live horse.
“I had just sold 13 million records or something,” says Miller. “It was the first time they ever thought about doing anything nice for me. They gave me a horse and the horse was so stoned it could hardly stand up. And it was a pregnant horse. And I said, ‘Did you give this horse anything?’ And they said, ‘Oh, absolutely not.’ And about eight days later when the horse arrived at my ranch, it just looked at people and just totally freaked and bolted, and it took us two days to catch it and get it back in.”
Growing up, Miller was surrounded by music. His father, George, a pathologist, loved jazz and blues and purchased one of the first reel-to-reel tape machines in the late 1940s. T-bone Walker and Les Paul found themselves stopping by to make recordings with his father’s gear. Paul would become Miller’s godfather and lifelong friend. By 12, Miller and a buddy had started the Marksmen, taking calls from frat houses, sororities, churches and synagogues.
Miller never stopped working. Then after years of success — three of Miller’s first four albums landed in the top 25 — his career hit bottom in 1972. Recall the Beginning ... A Journey From Eden stalled outside the Billboard Top 100 and left expectations low for his eighth record. The Joker, released in October 1973, changed everything.
But instead of hitting the road for a massive tour, Miller quickly laid down rhythm tracks for his next group of songs at a studio in San Francisco. Then he took the tapes home and spent two years experimenting with lyrics and guitar lines, and laying down all of the vocals.
Miller had already fought for control of his masters. Greg Fischbach, an attorney who renegotiated Miller’s contract in the 1970s, negotiated a new deal that gave him higher royalties.
The holdout ended with 1976’s Fly Like an Eagle and 1977’s Book of Dreams. The songs on those albums were so popular that they make up 13 of the 14 tracks on Greatest Hits 1974-78 and have dominated his concert sets for decades. The longer term implication is being felt now with Welcome to the Vault.
In the early ’70s, when Miller was working at Capitol, he noticed ’50s rockabilly singer Gene Vincent’s master tapes shoved into cardboard boxes, basically forgotten. He decided only he could protect his music.
“I didn’t say, ‘Oh, can I have them?’ I’d just say, ‘We’re packing up. Put all these in boxes and put them in my truck. Let’s go.’”
About 15 years ago, Miller hired a former band member, David Denny, to convert the tapes and deliver reports. His wife, Janice Ginsberg Miller, eventually got involved.
Miller had stopped recording new pop songs in the early ’90s and no longer had a working relationship with Capitol, which is now owned by Universal Music Group. Gersh is long gone and Universal president Bruce Resnikoff had heard all the stories. He also knew that Miller is “brilliant” and has “one of the greatest archives an artist has ever kept.”
That’s what he told Miller when they started talking. Resnikoff promised to assemble a new team to work with him. And when Miller shared the results of his latest audit — yes, he still conducts them — Resnikoff didn’t argue. He had Universal write a cheque for the $600,000 Miller said he was owed in royalties.
“Is he difficult?” says Resnikoff. “I would say that he has a vision and he has talent and people with talent and vision are difficult if you don’t pay attention.”
And how does Miller feel about his label? He doesn’t hesitate. “I love them,” he says. “For the first time.”