Well it is Valentine's Day. And this is one of the most irredeemably romantic, if ludicrous and overblown, songs ever recorded. Of course it's written by the indisputable genius Jimmy Webb, responsible for Wichita Lineman, By the Time I Get To Phoenix, Galveston, Up Up and Away and uncountable others. This is the song that the jury remains out on. Harris is clearly not a great singer but carries it all off somehow on the basis of sheer theatrical know-how and gall. Apparently he promised Webb his brown Rolls Royce if the song was a hit and then never delivered. The lyric is florid emotive passion.
'Spring was never waiting for us, girl
It ran one step ahead
As we followed in the dance'
It ran one step ahead
As we followed in the dance'
'I recall the yellow cotton dress
foaming like a wave
on the ground around your knees
The birds, like tender babies in your hands
and the old men playing checkers by the trees'
foaming like a wave
on the ground around your knees
The birds, like tender babies in your hands
and the old men playing checkers by the trees'
And of course that much mocked stuff about the cake left out in the rain. It all makes sense to me and would probably do so to many people who've been deeply in love. Not the greatest fan of the epic orchestral overkill section but the song is overblown from the start and has a certain hammy integrity that prevails I think. Webb's account of the story behind it makes it more evocative. Happy Valentine's Day! I hope this finds you in love and loved. It's probably an emotion that should be equally valid every other day of the year.
MacArthur Park in L.A. Now the scene of much gang warfare.
(Once again, please ignore the date on top of this. It really is Valentine's Day. It really is Friday!)
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How we made MacArthur Park
Songwriter Jimmy Webb recalls recording the somewhat infuriating suite with actor Richard Harris, and the real story behind leaving that cake out in the rain.
Interview by Dave Simpson
The lyrics to MacArthur Park infuriate some people. "Someone left the cake out in the rain/ I don't think that I can take it/ 'Cause it took so long to bake it/ And I'll never have that recipe again." They think it's a psychedelic trip. But everything in the song is real. There is a MacArthur Park in Los Angeles, near where my girlfriend worked selling life insurance. We'd meet there for lunch, and there would be old men playing checkers by the trees, like in the lyrics.
I've been asked a million times: "What is the cake left out in the rain?" It's something I saw – we would eat cake and leave it in the rain. But as a metaphor for a losing a chapter of your life, it seemed too good to be true. When she broke up with me, I poured the hurt into the song. It was always around seven minutes long – not 22 as has been written.
Bones Howe, a fellow producer, had asked me to create a pop song with classical elements, different movements and changing time signatures. MacArthur Park, more of a suite than a song, was everything he wanted, but when we presented it to his new act, the Association, they refused to record it. It was the late 1960s and I was doing music for an anti-war pageant with some Hollywood stars, including Mia Farrow and Edgar G Robinson. Richard Harris and I started hanging out after rehearsals and drinking Black Velvets: 50% Guinness, 50% champagne. One night after a few, I said: "We ought to make a record." He'd starred in the movie Camelot and sang every song in it beautifully. A few weeks later, I received a telegram: "Dear Jimmy Webb. Come to London. Make this record. Love, Richard." He always called me Jimmy Webb.
I got a flight and stayed with Richard in Belgravia. Over the course of two days, we tore through 30 or 40 of my songs. I was playing the piano and singing. He was standing there in his kaftan, waving his arms and expressing excitement at some songs, not so crazy about others. The best went into his debut album, A Tramp Shining. MacArthur Park was at the bottom of my pile. By the time I played it, we had moved on to straight brandy, but Richard slapped the piano. "Oh Jimmy Webb. I love that! I'll make a hit out of that, I will."
I recorded the basic track back in Hollywood, with myself on harpsichord accompanied by session musicians the Wrecking Crew. We rehearsed it a few times, then played it right through, using the first take and adding the orchestra painstakingly later. When Richard did the vocals at a London studio, he had a pitcher of Pimm's by the microphone. We knew the session was over when the Pimm's was gone. I never could get him to sing the title correctly. He'd say: "Jimmy Webb, I've got it!" Then he'd sing: "MacArthur's Park ..." It was wonderful to hear him growing in confidence. At one point, he said: "I think the vocals are a little loud. We need more orchestra." A few months later, he was saying: "Jimmy Webb! The damn orchestra's too loud!" He'd gone from wanting to hide his voice to wanting people to hear it.
At first, we felt like the guys who'd created the A-bomb: we were a bit afraid of what we'd done. I didn't know I could write something like that. We had doubts about releasing it as a single, but when radio stations began playing it from the album in its entirety, I was asked to do a shorter version as a single. I refused, so eventually they put out the full seven minutes 20 seconds. George Martin once told me the Beatles let Hey Jude run to over seven minutes because of MacArthur Park.
It was a surprise when the song went to No 2 in America and No 4 in the UK. It's since been recorded by everyone from Frank Sinatra to Aretha Franklin. Donna Summer's disco version is my only American No 1, which was quite a thrill. I always knew the girl who inspired the song would hear it and know what it meant. A long time after I had written it, I found out she had moved to Lake Tahoe and become a dancer. When I came into some significant money, I hired a Lear jet, flew up there, and said: "I'm not going back without you." We lived together for three years. Then it turned into a soap opera.
I've been asked a million times: "What is the cake left out in the rain?" It's something I saw – we would eat cake and leave it in the rain. But as a metaphor for a losing a chapter of your life, it seemed too good to be true. When she broke up with me, I poured the hurt into the song. It was always around seven minutes long – not 22 as has been written.
Bones Howe, a fellow producer, had asked me to create a pop song with classical elements, different movements and changing time signatures. MacArthur Park, more of a suite than a song, was everything he wanted, but when we presented it to his new act, the Association, they refused to record it. It was the late 1960s and I was doing music for an anti-war pageant with some Hollywood stars, including Mia Farrow and Edgar G Robinson. Richard Harris and I started hanging out after rehearsals and drinking Black Velvets: 50% Guinness, 50% champagne. One night after a few, I said: "We ought to make a record." He'd starred in the movie Camelot and sang every song in it beautifully. A few weeks later, I received a telegram: "Dear Jimmy Webb. Come to London. Make this record. Love, Richard." He always called me Jimmy Webb.
I got a flight and stayed with Richard in Belgravia. Over the course of two days, we tore through 30 or 40 of my songs. I was playing the piano and singing. He was standing there in his kaftan, waving his arms and expressing excitement at some songs, not so crazy about others. The best went into his debut album, A Tramp Shining. MacArthur Park was at the bottom of my pile. By the time I played it, we had moved on to straight brandy, but Richard slapped the piano. "Oh Jimmy Webb. I love that! I'll make a hit out of that, I will."
I recorded the basic track back in Hollywood, with myself on harpsichord accompanied by session musicians the Wrecking Crew. We rehearsed it a few times, then played it right through, using the first take and adding the orchestra painstakingly later. When Richard did the vocals at a London studio, he had a pitcher of Pimm's by the microphone. We knew the session was over when the Pimm's was gone. I never could get him to sing the title correctly. He'd say: "Jimmy Webb, I've got it!" Then he'd sing: "MacArthur's Park ..." It was wonderful to hear him growing in confidence. At one point, he said: "I think the vocals are a little loud. We need more orchestra." A few months later, he was saying: "Jimmy Webb! The damn orchestra's too loud!" He'd gone from wanting to hide his voice to wanting people to hear it.
At first, we felt like the guys who'd created the A-bomb: we were a bit afraid of what we'd done. I didn't know I could write something like that. We had doubts about releasing it as a single, but when radio stations began playing it from the album in its entirety, I was asked to do a shorter version as a single. I refused, so eventually they put out the full seven minutes 20 seconds. George Martin once told me the Beatles let Hey Jude run to over seven minutes because of MacArthur Park.
It was a surprise when the song went to No 2 in America and No 4 in the UK. It's since been recorded by everyone from Frank Sinatra to Aretha Franklin. Donna Summer's disco version is my only American No 1, which was quite a thrill. I always knew the girl who inspired the song would hear it and know what it meant. A long time after I had written it, I found out she had moved to Lake Tahoe and become a dancer. When I came into some significant money, I hired a Lear jet, flew up there, and said: "I'm not going back without you." We lived together for three years. Then it turned into a soap opera.
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