Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. This is a story about Christmas. It's a story about guns and about pain and control, about how a kid from the Bronx made a wall of sound and then made the Holidays sound bigger than they ever had before. It's about how fame turns to fear and fear turns to violence, and it's about the fine line between immortality and infamy. This is a story about Phil Spector, so naturally, it's a story about great music, some of the most groundbreaking and
influential music of the last sixty years. Unlike that clip I played for you at the top of the show. That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called Electric hair Piece MK.
Two.
I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Deep Purple by Nino Tempo and April Stevens. And why would I play you that specific slice of
Richie Blackmore Inspiring Cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on November twenty two, nineteen sixty three, And that was the day that Phil Spector released the album A Christmas Gift for You, His attempt to cement his young legacy on the charts and in the minds of millions, only to have his music overshadowed by one of the darkest days in American history,
an omen of the even darker days to come. On this episode, a wall of sound, guns, fear, violence, great Christmas music in Phil Spector. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgracelam February third, two thousand and three, Alhambra, California. Fifty thousand volts of electricity ripped through Phil Spector's sixty three year old body. Within seconds, his knees gave up. He dropped to the floor. His vision was blurry, but he could now feel the cop who just tasered him
cuffing his hands behind his back. This was his house, his castle, actually the famed Pyrenees Castle, a castle fit for a king, or, more accurately, Inspector's case, fit for a legendary record producer. Phil Spector lived up on high on a hill overlooking the San Gabrielle Valley. Ten bedrooms, ten bathrooms, turrets, spires, mirrored walls, crystal chandeliers. It was part Gothic, part Romantic, part relic of the past.
But it was his.
And the police just walked right in like they owned the place. And they saw the woman's body slumped in an ivory brocade chair, and they saw all the blood, the teeth scattered all over the floor of the foyer, and then they saw Phil Spector standing there, his white jacket splattered with blood.
They told him to put his hands up. He did not comply.
He hated cops. He hated cops ever since. They made life hell for his good friend Lenny Bruce rest in peace.
So fuck you a HUMBERPD.
That's the moment the cop fired the taser, and that's when the pain really set in.
Life was pain.
Phil Spector knew pain as early as nine years old when his father parked his car on the side of the road in Brooklyn, pumped in the exhaust through a rubber tube in the driver's side window, and suffocated on the fumes. And then years later, when his own son, Philip Junior, died of leukemia, Phil Spector knew the pain never really went away, and now faced down on the cold floor of his castle, Phil had to push past the pain of the taser to realize that he was
being placed under arrest on suspicion of murder. At this point, the cops had found the bloody thirty eight caliber Cobra Revolver and the nine other guns Phil kept in the house. Phil Spector loved guns. Just ask John Lennon, Debbie, Harry Ramone, Leonard Cohen Cher, or any other musician who'd once had a gun pulled on them by one of the twentieth century's most consequential figures in popular music. It was true Phil Spector loved guns, but there was one thing he
loved even more than guns, Christmas. As an orchestrated rendition of Silent Knight played in his headphones, Phil Spector leaned into the microphone Phil's right hand, studio engineer Larry Levine, hit record.
The tape rolled.
Phil Spector spoke in his nasal, high pitched voice, Hello, this is Phil Spector. It's Christmas, so why don't you go fuck yourselves? In reality, it wasn't Christmas, not quite yet. It was August nineteen sixty three. Outside the walls of gold Star Studios in Hollywood. The mercury topped one hundred three degrees inside, though it was freezing. Philip cranked the ac and hopes that it would help the many musicians and singers involved in creating his new Christmas album get
into the holiday spirit. But Phil Spector, for one, may have gotten a little too much.
Into the spirit. I made this for you.
He said into the microphone, as the tape kept rolling. You caught suckers. Phil began to laugh hysterically. Larry Levine had stopped on the tape machine. Come on, Phil, he said, you can't say that. And also, this monologue of yours is already like five minutes long.
You gotta cut it down.
The monologue that Larry was referring to was Phil's spoken word contribution to the final track of the record. It was Phil's way of making sure that listeners knew who was really the brains behind the operation. Not the Rawnettes and not the Crystals, but the so called Tycoon of teen the self made millionaire who made his bones producing hit records for the teenage set. He called them little
symphonies for the kids. At just twenty three years old himself, Phil Spector was serious about his groundbreaking, overwhelming wall of sound style, which, for the first time in pop music history, really exploited all the amenities of the recording studio for maximum emotional effect. A Phil Spector record was known for its layers of instruments, strings and echo, and a collection
of Christmas songs would be no different. Because this record wasn't just a cynical holiday cash grab, It wasn't some phoned in Andy Williams bullshit. It was a proof of vision. Phil Spector was going to make the greatest, most musically sophisticated Christmas record ever released. He hoped it would be as big as Irving Berlin's White Christmas, not only the biggest selling Christmas song of all time, but the biggest selling song of all time period. White Christmas was immortal,
Thus Irving Berlin was immortal too. That was the kind of immortality that Phil Specter aspired to. So we booked
gold Star Studios for six weeks. He worked fifteen sixteen hour days, seamlessly weaving together a joyous tapestry of horns, strings, sleigh bells, LA's greatest session musicians, the Wrecking Crew, and the voices of beehive hair dude beauties like Darlene Love and that one girl he had a crush on, Ronnie Bennett, even though Phil himself was a newly led but although the music was joyous, the ways in which he achieved that sound were often less, so he demanded take after
take and get it just right. He punched the talkback button.
Stop take it again from the top. Stop take it again from the top, Stop take it again from the top.
He pushed every player to their limits, and when it all got to his head, which it often did, when his ego and his ambition made him feel godlike, so powerful that even he thought for a moment that he could actually say go fuck yourselves on his monologue for the album's final track. He had guys like Larry Levine who brought him back down to earth. It was Larry Levine who said, quote the Christmas album is a period I don't remember with pleasure unquote. But Phil Spector didn't
really care about all that. This record was his statement of purpose, and when it was released in November of nineteen sixty three, it would blow the Irving Berlins and Andy Williams's right out of the water and cement Phil Spector as the musical force to be reckored with.
And then.
Here is a bullet them from CBS News in Dallas, Texas, three shots were fired at President Kennaday's motorcade and downtown. The first report say that President Kennedy has been seriously wounded by the shooting.
The assassination of President John F. Kennedy just so happened to coincide with the release of Phil Spector's holiday album, A Christmas Gift for You. Retail sales came to a halt. Radio stations broke format for days, replacing pop music with round the clock news, and as a result, the record did not sell as expected, but even more crushing for
its creator, it did not make Phil Spector immortal. Phil Spector was instead reminded of his own mortality because he had failed, and he was now once again in pain, so much pain, in fact, that the accepted narrative claims that Phil pulled all copies of A Christmas Gift for
You from record store shelves across the country. But do a little digging in, it seems that this is nothing but a myth, one that's been perpetuated over the years by biographers, perhaps out there by Phil himself, in order to control the narrative about why the record didn't sell well upon its initial release. Because if you look at
the data from the trade charts. During December of nineteen sixty three, The album was number thirteen on Billboard's seasonal list and in the top five on cash Box's seasonal survey. What Died that weekend wasn't the record so much as the moment hit radio went silent, Commerce screeched to a halt, and by the time America went back to normal, the window had nearly closed, and so at Phil Spector's odds at achieving immortality.
But Phil was nothing if not tenacious.
He knew he would create another opportunity in which he could take another shot, and this one would be huge, bigger than Christmas, big enough that the whole world would take notice. Big Jim slammed his big fists down on the desk, papers went flying, a rotary phone fell onto the floor, and Phil Spector, who had just been seated behind the desk, leaped to his feet and shock. Big Jim was not fucking around. He was a thug and
pleaded khakis. He rolled up his sleeves and started to come around to the other side of the desk, obviously eager to wring Phil Spector's neck. Phil panicked and began to distance himself defensively. What the hell do you want, Big Jim laughed. It's not what I want, It's what Joe Scandori wants. And I'm the guy who makes sure
that Joe Scandori gets what he wants. Joe Scandori as in the well connected business association of the Genevese crime family, who also just so happened to be the manager of the vocal group The Crystals, who were signed to Phil Spector's independent record label. Big Jim grabbed both ends of the desk with his big palms. It looked like he was either about to vault over it or toss it to the side, and do you know what Joe Scandori wants?
And Phil thought about making a run for it, but he knew that Big Jim would squash him like a size fifteen steel toe boot on a scattering cockroach, so he just stayed where he was opposite his momentary tormentor, trying not to look like he was about to piss
his pants. Joe Scandori wants you to deliver this fucking single by the Crystals that you owen, and he wants you to do it right now, and you'd better do it because if you don't I'm going to kill your fucking mother, and then I'm coming back here to break your legs. A few weeks later, in August of nineteen sixty two, Phil Spector's record label released The Crystal's latest single, He's a Rebel. But here's the thing. The girls who
actually sang on that single, they weren't the Crystals. They were The Blossoms, featuring the great Darlene Love on lead.
For years, this remained a secret, and the reason that it happened in the first place was because Phil Spector was terrified that Joe Scandori's muscle Big Jim, was going to make good on his promise to maim and kill if Phil didn't release something by the Crystals, and since he had a recording of the Blossoms already in the cam, putting that out under the Crystal's name seemed the easiest and swiftest way to avoid.
Big Jim's bloody retribution.
And despite the discrepancy between the name on the label and the voices in the record's grooves, He's a Rebel. The song became the second single produced by Phil Spector to hit number one. The Crystal's next single, which actually was performed by The Crystals. This time the Du Run Run hit number tis, and then the Rawnettes excellent be My Baby made it to number two. Both of those
songs in nineteen sixty three. Be My Baby, in particular, was the helen of Troy of early sixties pop, the song that launched one thousand ships, as it were, or more accurately, the song that inspired upstarts like The Beach Boys, Brian Wilson and The Beatles John Lennon to.
Reach new creative heights.
The next time Phil Spector would see one of his productions hit the top of the pop chart, however, was with the Righteous Brothers nineteen sixty four single You've Lost That Loving Feeling, a number one smash in both the United States and the UK.
You've Lost That Loving Feeling, be My Baby, the Do Run Run, and.
He's a Rebel all shared the same thing, Phil Spector's unmistakable wall of sound, which was achieved by doubling or sometimes tripling instruments like an acoustic piano and electric piano and harpsichord, all playing the same parts simultaneously.
The resulting sound.
Was massive, as big and expressive as the dramatic melancholy of nineteen sixties teenage life, and it exploded from jukeboxes in car radio speakers. In nineteen sixty six, the wall of sound grew bigger than ever at the gold Star session for Phil's production of Ike and Tina Turner's version
of River Deep Mountain High. Four guitars, three bass players, three pianos, two drummers, multiple percussionists, close to two dozen musicians in total played in that room together at top volume, and after Tina Turner matched to the musician's energy level with a performance so feverish and sweaty that she stripped down to her bra and after the final product had been drenched in that patented wall of sound echo, River Deep Mountain High was undeniably a masterpiece.
A Phil Specter masterpiece.
But the decade was changing fast. The teenagers Phil made his music for were moving on. Beatlemania had completely rearranged the musical landscape, and the British invasion was all the rage. In nineteen sixty six, during a summer which stripped down songs by the Rascals, the Mamas and the Papas and the Rolling Stones dominated the pop chart, the overstuffed River Deep Mountain High stalled at number eighty eight. It was the worst charting single of Phil Spector's now eight year career.
The failure was a gut punch. This was the Christmas album of fiasco all over again. Maybe it was complicated by the fact that he tried to sign The Rolling Stones to his record label, Phil Less Records, but was stonewalled by the chairman of their UK label. Either way, this time Phil Spector took it personally. In an interview with The New York Times that very year, he said he'd lost interest in the record business. It's like a
fish saying that he's lost interest in water. With that sudden disinterest came an equal and opposite strong interest in one Ronnie Bennett, the Spanish Harlem girl with the hair and the face and the dark eyes and the red lips and the whole thing. Phil didn't tell her he already had a wife when they began dating, and Ronnie didn't suspect anything because Phil wasn't acting like a married
man would act. One time, Ronnie left gold Star Studios with Phil's gopher, a pre famed Sonny Bono, to go grab some burgers, and Phil's jealousy ran so hot that he turned the studio upside down while she was gone.
Even ripping tape off the reels.
Another time, Ronnie went out dancing with Sonny's girl Chare at the Purple Onion, only to have Phil show up in a rage and drag Ronnie from.
The dance floor.
Ronnie saw Phil freak out many a time, but never more than when his friend, the comedian Lenny Bruce, was found dead of an overdose. Phil couldn't get over the injustice of it all. Lenny had been arrested, humiliated, vilified, all for a couple of dirty words. Phil saw Lenny a kindred spirit, someone who was just as much a rebel as he was, especially when it came to the kinds of rules that their respective industries wanted to impose
upon them. With Phil, it was the expectation that he would make hit records like they had always been made. With Lenny, it was the expectation that he'd play it clean. And when they both broke the mold, like true rebels, this is what they got for it, rejected by the general public. With poor Lenny here naked on his bathroom floor, a syringe of junk his only companion. During his last breath, Phil was so upset about Lenny that he forbade Ronnie
from leaving him. She couldn't even go on tour with the Beatles, who had invited the Rawnettes to open their American dates for them, so her cousin Lane went in Ronnie's place, and by Christmas of nineteen six, when the Ronettes, like many other girl groups of their ilk, called it quits for good, it was Ronnie's turn to grieve because she had been denied those last few months with the group that bore her name. Phil said he'd make it
up to her. He was going to return to the record business that had forsaken him in order to make her a bona fide pop star. Ronnie hoped that Phil was telling the truth, turning a corner even and for that she was elated. But Ronnie couldn't see what was going on inside of Phil, who she would eventually marry in nineteen sixty eight. Phil Spector was not turning any corners.
Phil Spector was now a man defined by his pain, a man frustrated by what he perceived to be a disdainful public reaction to his genius, A man increasingly out of time. He was a man living in a world that had moved on without him. The Beatles, the Stones,
the Mamas and the Papas, the rascals. They were running laps around him, while he found himself paying increasing attention to the devil on his shoulder, and also to the devil on his other shoulder and inside Phil Spector, those devils waged a war through all that pain.
We'll be right back after this. We're We're, We're.
Nineteen seventy nine, the Hollywood Hills. Deede Ramone was tired of waiting around. This wasn't New York City. This wasn't fifty third and third. This was the cold and sterile home of Phil Spector, the first of assumed to be notorious mansions. This one nestled in the sunburnt brush, high above the Sunset Strip. It's not like the basis for the Ramones couldn't wait. If he had good reason to. Dede could wait on his man for some of that
Chinese rock, no problem. He just didn't like waiting on this man, or the man if this dinosaur of a record producer was to be believed who, according to d d's bandmate Johnny Ramone, was doing everything ass backwards. Johnny was the one usually calling the shots. And when Johnny spoke, you listened. He thought like he played, He talked like he played. He strategized like he played, which was fast, loud, and very brief. Johnny didn't waste notes, and he didn't
waste your time. When you made a record, According to the wisdom of Johnny Ramone, you got in, you got out, you got it over and done with. Making records was an occupational hazard, an inconvenience at best. But the Ramones were making a record with Phil Spector, who was as laborious and methodical as the leather and denim clad punks were quick and dirty. Phil made Johnny play the same fucking chord over and over again. It felt like some
sick joke. And so now Dedey found himself just wanting something to do, something besides all this sitting and waiting with his dick in his hands, And where was Joey? The Ramones lead singer, had been whisked away by Phil hours ago to work on a cover of an old Ronette song. Dede stood up and began to wander through the rooms in the hallways of Phil's mansion, shouting.
Joey, Joey, the fuck are you. Let's get the hell out of here man.
Suddenly, Phil Spector appeared from out of the shadows, wearing all black, long black hair, black goateee, black shades, A big, gaudy crucifix hung from his neck, and in his hand he held a revolver. What's the matter, Dede? Dedee nearly laughed, Phil looked ridiculous. Instead, Dede just shook his head, dismissed this crazy motherfucker standing before him with a wave of his hand, and told Phil that he was leaving. Phil stepped forward until he was in arm's length from Dede.
He raised the revolver and pushed it squarely into the bass player's chest, and then he spoke, dide, you.
Ain't going nowhere.
Dede and the rest of the Ramones were quickly discovering what others before them already knew that the producer, Phil Spector was fucking nuts. Their friends and Blondie knew it, and just a few years earlier, Phil invited them back here to his mansion after a show at the Whiskey and then held them at gunpoint, even at one point sticking the butt of his forty five down Debbie Harry's boot. Leonard Cohen knew it when Phil pulled the piece on him while they were making the album Death of a
Ladies Man. Actually, Phil grabbed Leonard's neck and then stuck the butt of a gun against the singer's head and said, Leonard, I love you. Cher knew it when she confronted Phil over some of her recordings he had legally released, and he responded by twirling.
A revolver on his finger.
George Harrison never saw it while he and Phil made All Things Must Pass, one of the greatest solo records by a Beatle, but George's friend John Lennon sure did. Phil showed up at a session for john solo album Rock and Roll, dressed like a surgeon and wildly fired his pistol at the studio ceiling. And all this, of course after he caused it, typically stoned and docile Paul McCartney to fly off the handle and compose the angriest letter of his career when Phil molested the master tapes
of the Beatles' final album Let It Be. But perhaps no one knew about Phil Spector better than his wife, Ronnie. Phil rarely let Ronnie leave the house. He locked her in the closet when he had company over, and on the rare occasion when he did allow her to leave, he placed an inflatable man doll in the front passenger seat of her car, so it appeared that he was
driving around with her. And perhaps there was no better example of the extent of his fucked upness than when he bought a solid gold coffin fur him his wife, Ronnie, and then showed it to her, making sure to point out that it was equipped with a glass top so that he could keep an eye on her even after she was dead. And by the time Phil was working with the Ramones, Ronnie had long since done what she
had been afraid to do for a long time. Afraid because she knew about Phil's insane jealousy, about his anger volatility, and about how that mixture, along with some alcohol and a house full.
Of loaded firearms, could prove deadly.
But she was able to leave unscathed, and as the nineteen seventies flew by and punk rock broke, Ronnie came to expect those monthly alimony checks from Phil, the ones that were always stamped with the words.
Fuck you on the back.
Juvenile. Yes, but she'd take it over the way he used to pay her twelve hundred dollars delivered entirely in nickels by a couple of heavies carrying shotguns.
But I digress.
In nineteen seventy nine, five years after his split with Ronnie was made official, Phil Spector needed.
A new target.
Unfortunately for them, it became the Ramones, and like I said, Punk may have broken, but Phil was doing his best part to break punk by remaking the band and his image. Obviously, the Ramones were aligned with the lineage of girl groups like the Ronettes, but it was as though Phil was stuck in the past and hell bent on dragging the boys.
Back there with him.
That said, the resulting album, End of the Century is pretty fucking awesome, even if it's not a true Ramones album in the sense that Phil brought in other drummers and guitar players for some songs, as well as a keyboardist.
And a saxophonist.
It took them three weeks to make the album. Joey said it was interminable, with the exception of his minor involvement on Yoko Ono's album Season of Glass in the nineteen eighties, not to mention a failed attempt at working with Celine Dion in the nine two tracks for a Star Sailor album in the two thousands. The Ramones record was the last full album of new material Phil Spector ever produced. For decades, he was largely absent from the musical landscape. He was a relic in an industry that
was constantly moving forward. He became a fetish of so called audio purists, synonymous with that back to Mono slogan which campaigned for a heyday that had been lost just as quickly as it had been defined. But to show him that he mattered, at least as an important notch on the timeline of twentieth century popular music, that same industry inducted Phil Spector into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in nineteen eighty nine.
It was recognition.
It was a plaque on a wall somewhere in Ohio, but it wasn't eternal. It wasn't White Christmas. And that's what Phil Spector had always wanted to be remembered for eternity.
And so he went in.
He got what he wanted, but he had to do something else in order to get it, because to truly grasp an eternity, to hold it in his hands, he had to also take infamy along with it, which is what he did. And when it long last, he seized eternity and infamy, he did it with a gun. Hey guys, Earlier in this episode I mentioned an incident in which Phil Spector shot his gun into the ceiling while making a record.
Was John Lennon.
The whole story around Phil and John's relationship is much crazier than that little nugget there, I believe it or not, and we simply didn't have time to get into it in this episode.
No problem.
That's why we have many episodes and you can hear that story about the wild Shenanigans of Phil Spector and John Lennon, which is full of debauchery and brazen theft and near death. You can hear all about it in a brand new mini episode, Like I said, of Disgraceland, available right now. Our mini episodes are created exclusively for our All Access members. So to hear this mini episode and hear every mini episode each week, just go to disgracelandpod dot com to sign up.
All right now, back.
To this story about Phil Spector in the wee hours of February three, two thousand and three, at the age of sixty three years old, Phil Spector still thought of himself as a rebel, just like the one in That Blossom Crystal's song. Only this time his rebellion wasn't taking place inside a recording studio as it had four decades earlier. This time he was rocking that rebel attitude by going in the wrong door at the House of Blues on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles. This was the door you
went through if you were somebody. You had to be worthy to go through that door. Phil Spector wasn't on the House of Blues VIP list that night, but that didn't matter to him. He was a VIP in the larger cultural sense, at least in his own mind. At first, the club's staff told him he wasn't allowed in the room, but then one of the waitresses did recognize him, and suddenly everyone's tune changed. Suddenly Phil was being led to a seat and poured a stiff glass of Bacardi.
Who won fifty one.
He could hear Judas priest rob Halford wrapping up his set in the performance room there at the venue, But all that hell bent for leather shit that wasn't for Phil. Besides, Phil was too busy making eyes at one waitress, in particular, the six foot tall blonde with piercing eyes and legs for days. Lana Clarkson was a forty year old struggling actress who had never quite reached the Hollywood dream. She'd spent her adult life chasing B movies Roger Corman productions,
films with titles like Barbarian Queen. This was what she'd come to expect as her lot in life. Eyed hustles like this House of Blues gig were necessary to keep the lights on, and the work wasn't as risky as the work she'd allegedly done a decade earlier as a call girl who commanded upwards of one thousand dollars an hour. Now,
maybe Lana Clarkson had heard of Phil Spector before. It's hard to know, But after Phil made repeated advances during his brief stay there at the House of Blues that night, Lana eventually accepted his invitation to go home with him to his castle on a hill some fourteen miles away in nearby Alhambra. The pair climbed into the backseat of Phil's black Mercedes limousine and his driver, Adriano Desuza, put it in drive.
There was two thirty in the morning.
The bright lights of Los Angeles receded in the distance, and now was all strip malls, single stories, bungalows. Now Hambro was fast asleep. A little over an hour passed, and soon Lana Clarkson could see the huge iron gates that created a physical and metaphorical barrier around Phil's otherworldly castle. Adriano pulled the limo up to the house. Phil and Lana got out, and then they walked up the eighty
eight stone steps to the castle's front door. Lana didn't even think to wonder if that number eighty eight was intentional, done on purpose to match the number of keys on a piano. Was it mere coincidence, just like her presence here right now. Had this all been planned in advance, Was it in the cards cosmically speaking, or was it as completely random as it seemed like?
I said.
She wasn't thinking these things because her mind was racing to simply take in what she was seeing as they walked through the enormous front door and into the ornate foyer, the marble flooring, the crystal chandeliers, the white piano in the decorative suit of armor, and an ivory brocade chair.
Outside.
Adriano had pulled the limo around back where he was now waiting because technically he was still on the clock. The soft meditative purr of the engine was suddenly rattled by a loud crack coming from inside the castle. Adriana was startled. He threw open the driver's door and jumped from the limo just as his boss, Phil Spector, was coming out of the back door. Phil was holding a
revolver in his hand. Phil stood there in the early morning darkness and the sun just beginning to push up against the cold horizon, and with a blank stare on his face. Phil Spector looked at Adriano and said, I think I killed somebody. Minutes later, Alhambra PD discovered Lana Clarkson's dead body slumped in that ivory brocade chair with
a single gunshot wound to her mouth. Phil Spector would go on to claim that Lana Clarkson had drunkenly played around with the thirty eight Colt Cobra revolver that killed her, even kissing it in the moment before she accidentally shot herself, but the evidence otherwise, and after two trials and after a jury deliberated for thirty hours, Phil Spector was found guilty of second degree murder on April thirteenth, two thousand
and nine. He got nineteen years to life. Eight months later, on December twenty third of that same year, Darlene Love, formerly of the Blossoms, one of the groups shepherded by a young Phil Spector, appeared as the musical guest on The Late Show with David Letterman. As was Letterman's tradition since nineteen eighty six, every December, right before the holiday, Darlene would come on the show to perform her song Christmas Baby, Please Come Home, one of the highlights from
Phil Spector's A Christmas Gift for You album. This year, however, Phil Spector's name was not mentioned on the televised broadcast. This was Darlene Love's song. This was Darlene Love's moment, and for all the studio audience knew, hell for all the world new as they.
Watched from home.
Phil Spector had nothing to do with this. This Christmas album was once the thing that Phil Spector hoped would make him remembered for eternity. But now all Phil Spector was known for was being a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland. All right, guys, thanks for checking out this episode of Disgraceland. This week's question of the week, I want to know from all of y'all, what are you listening to? What are your go to Christmas songs? Christmas albums.
I'm hoping to hear some out there kind of unique.
Sek esoteric recommendations from you guys. I want to get turned on to some Christmas music that I'm not currently aware of that I'm not listening to. We love Christmas music in the house, we got to play constantly, but I want your Christmas tune recommendations, all right, hit me up six one seven nine oh six six six three eight. You might hear your voice on the next bonus episode, the Afterparty episode of Disgrace, and you can also text.
Me at that number.
Hit me at disgracelampod on the socials. You guys, want exclusive content from Disgraceland, you want ad free listening, you want that mini episode. Go to disgracelampod dot com and become an all access member today.
Our guys, here come some credits.
Disgracelam was created by Yours Truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelampod dot com. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at disgracelampod and on YouTube at YouTube dot com, slash at disgracelampod.
Rock a Roller.
He's a bad, bad man.