Benmont Tench Went Further

“I realized, ‘They’re not firing me. They just don’t need me on one of the songs.’” Photo-Illustration: Vulture; Photos: Getty

Benmont Tench is so dedicated to this interview that he pulled himself over to the side of the road to dial the call. “I couldn’t get home in time. If you hear a car honking, it’s not me honking at you,” he insists. “Don’t take it personally.” A few errant honks aside, Tench — best known as a founding member of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers — is a warm and witty presence, just like the sounds that emoted from his keys as the band’s valve. Along with guitarist Mike Campbell and Petty himself, Tench was with the Heartbreakers from their formation in 1976 all the way to their final show in 2017, toggling between the piano and Hammond organ as Petty’s kick-ass spellcaster who flew through songs like a hypnotic spiral. “If the drummer isn’t right and the bass player isn’t right, you don’t have the glue,” he explains. “You might make a hit record, but you aren’t making it the same.”

Tench’s success often brought him out of the Heartbreakers’ bubble and into the studio for other marquee musicians, like that guy Bob from Duluth, Stevie Nicks, and Johnny Cash. While he says that he’s “awful at learning other people’s songs” — an opinion we’ll dispute on his behalf given the evidence — he can only count on one hand the number of times he left a session feeling dissatisfied. “The truth of the matter is that very few records I’ve worked on have been really difficult,” he explains. “Usually, it’s more the circumstance, like I might be having an emotionally difficult day.”

This year found Tench in a different studio mind-set: He released his second solo record, The Melancholy Season, back in March, which he’ll punctuate later this month with a trio of City Winery shows. Ever the humble one, Tench took some time to recount the most formidable keywork of his career. “I don’t know anything,” he says with a laugh. “I’m just blessed by everybody who has ever asked me to play on a song. Nobody has been a drag or a pain or a bummer. I’ve learned something from everybody.”

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Damn the Torpedoes (1979)

Jimmy Iovine produced the album. He kept repeating, “Do it again. Do it again. Do it again,” because he wanted it to be perfect. He and Tom didn’t want to stop and edit things or do anything you normally do when making a record, such as: “Take the first half of this take and second half of that take, we’ve got it.” They wanted to record each song all the way through. I would nail something the first or second time we played it. But then, over the course of a week, we would still do 75 takes of a song. It was so unnecessary. The songs are all great, so I don’t mind, but I could see that Jimmy immediately didn’t hit it off with Stan Lynch, was microscoping him and mentally beating him up behind his drum kit. It was really hard to make music with my friends while Jimmy was like, “No, do this. Do it again.” It was hard to see the progress. I was the right guy to play in that band. Another keyboard player, like Roy Bittan of the E Street Band, is spectacular but wouldn’t have been the right guy for the Heartbreakers. I wouldn’t have been the right guy for Bruce Springsteen. My point is that, in general, I can fall into the part pretty easily. Not everyone can.

Don Henley, I Can’t Stand Still (1982) and Building the Perfect Beast (1984)

Among the people who I can tell you are the most difficult and, in many ways, rewarding to work with, No. 1 is Don Henley. I love him. He’s a hell of a songwriter. But he wants better, and if he writes things himself on the piano, it’s not easy for me. The first record I worked on with him was when he went solo with I Can’t Stand Still. There are great songs on that, like “Dirty Laundry,” but there were a couple of ballads. He said, “Here’s the cassette tape; learn this.” I said, “Don, you’re crazy. Get somebody else.” He worked a fair amount with David Paich, the pianist with Toto — everybody in Toto were legendary session players by the time they were teenagers. So I said, “Get Paich.” And he said, “No, you can do it. I want you to do it.” So there’s a song on that record called “Talking to the Moon.” Don had faith in me and made me learn this part for the song. I was very nervous while we were sampling it. It came out really well.

Later, it wasn’t as much recording as it was writing it, but “Sunset Grill” from Building the Perfect Beast was tricky. He had been writing the song with Danny Kortchmar, who was his creative partner for a while. Danny plays the certain kind of swing that has so much depth and soul, and it’s not something you learn. Don wrote part of the song. He called me up late one night and said, “Come over here. We want you to write a bridge for a song, and we want it to sound like the theme to Perry Mason.” And I’m thinking, “Yeah, I love this song you were working on, but after the first eight bars, I can’t figure out the chords.” But they insisted. Don would always push. I went over to work on “Sunset Grill” with them and came up with a bridge chord structure and melody. And he kept saying, “Can you go farther?” It was kind of like pulling teeth. Many of the sessions I’ve done for Don have been like that. They haven’t been uptight, but they have been, “You can do better.” Play your solo again. You’re almost at it. The Eagles had a reputation for perfection, and I have no doubt it’s justified.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, “A Wasted Life” (1982)

Tom was a guy who would push you. There’s a song called “A Wasted Life” on Long After Dark, and it’s one of my favorite songs he ever wrote. He had done a demo and had played a swing synthesizer on it. He said, “When we record this, I want you to play exactly what I play.” As I listened to the song I told him, “Tommy, great song, but it’s very random. I mean, it’s very hard to catch on to it. It doesn’t repeat. It’s just off the top of your head.” And he said, “Yeah, but I like it and want you to play it.” And then he couldn’t remember how to play it because it was that random.

So I sat for a long time and tried to write it out. I got it pretty close. The hardest sessions are when you go in and you just don’t like the music. It doesn’t matter if you have free rein. But when you find yourself in a session and you don’t like the song, it’s really awkward. Fortunately, it didn’t happen to me often because I became more cautious with what I said “yes” to. Because if I go in to play on a song I don’t like or for an artist whose music doesn’t resonate, I’m not going to do that well.

Bob Dylan, Empire Burlesque (1985)

I haven’t had an experience with Bob that wasn’t fantastic. On Empire Burlesque, there’s a song called “I’ll Remember You.” It’s beautiful, and he wrote it on the piano. This is the biggest example of knowing when you’re licked. He showed it to me, and it was very simple. I sat down to play it. The trick wasn’t in playing his exact same notes. The trick was in his hands, or in his heart, or in his mind. I couldn’t come anywhere near that, even when I thought about the notes, because there’s something in Bob’s head and in the way he sings that can’t be replicated. There’s an inflection in how he plays the piano. So within ten minutes, he was like, “Okay, maybe you play the organ instead.” I was relieved.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Echo (1999)

That record was a mixed bag for me to make because Howie Epstein, our bass player and one of my best friends in the world, was in very bad shape. Tom was writing great, but he wasn’t in good shape either. I also had some really rough stuff going on in my personal life, so those three things combined made it a pretty dark experience. There’s a song called “Counting on You” where I learned something important about Rick Rubin. Rick produced the album, is a brilliant man, and he knows it when he hears it. He’s open-minded to anything, but he wants you to be open-minded to anything as well. I learned a lot about Go ahead and try, there’s nothing to lose. For “Counting on You,” we had cut the track and there was going to be an electric piano solo. I did the solo, and Rick said, “Try again.” I did it again. “No, try it again.” I couldn’t get to him. I did it again. He went, “Meh.” I just knew I had it. I told him, “I think it’s really bloody great and that’s the solo. I don’t know why you’re putting me through this.” And he smiled and went, “Okay.” Sometimes being just enough is fine.

Johnny Cash, American IV: The Man Comes Around (2002)

Rick Rubin produced those later albums for Johnny, and he doesn’t want anything to get in the way of the song. I swear, the two of them were soulmates. On the occasion of making American IV: The Man Comes Around, there’s a version of “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” It was hard for me to find myself on song because of its simplicity. Rick said, “Have a pass on the piano.” I did my thing. And he said, “That’s great. It’s just what I want, but you’re playing too many notes. You need to simplify.” I simplified. “That’s great, but it’s still too much.” I simplified again. “That’s great, but it’s still too much.” In one spot, I played one note. And he said, “That’s great. Do that, but play less and it’ll be perfect.” I said, “Rick, I’m playing one note, how the hell do I play less?” He said, “I know you can do it.” Somehow, I played the note, and I was able to make it quieter. I played so little that I could barely hear myself. Boy, was it fun. It was like breaking out a puzzle.

And you don’t always complete the puzzle. Rick wanted to cut Robert Palmer’s song “Addicted to Love” with Johnny. Not anything like the original pop version, of course; it was in the style of those American records. Still, I remember thinking, “This is ridiculous.” We gave it a good shot, and he was very sincere about singing it — he sang it well. But it was what you would expect if you know the song: “Might as well face it, you’re addicted to love.” Johnny finally said, “This isn’t working.” Nobody was bummed or embarrassed. We tried it, but it didn’t work, so let’s try something else.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Hypnotic Eye (2014)

Tom wrote some great songs, but I was having a hard time finding my way into them. It’s very much a guitar-based record, so on several songs I thought, “I can make a contribution to this.” Mike [Campbell] had grown into a different tone and played differently in terms of his style that didn’t leave much for the piano. “American Dream Plan B” and “Fault Lines” left little for me. The guitar sounds were sometimes so big and fat that there wasn’t space I could find room. You don’t want to be like, “I have to play something louder and ram my way into it so I can be heard. Me, me, me.” You have to take the hint that it’s not needed. But I kept trying. In the end, there’s a few places where you hear a low note in the middle of the song. I’ve come a long way. I felt pretty sensitive when I first joined the Heartbreakers when I couldn’t find a way to get piano in a song. Then I realized, They’re not firing me. They just don’t need me on one of the songs.

In 2017, during the final tour, it was easier to find my spot in the Hypnotic Eye songs while playing live. At our very last show for the tour, which became our final show ever, I had such an aha moment. It was like, I cracked the code. I understand what Mike is up to, and I love it. I couldn’t wait to get back in the studio and play more gigs because I realized I could take it to another place, bring another element into the way the band sounds, and bring another way to make the songs go where they go. I had found it, and then it was gone, because the band was gone. I guess I wasn’t supposed to. I tend to look at it in enormous frustration, but I have a little bit of a sense of humor. It’s like Peter Sellers at the end of Dr. Strangelove. He’s in a wheelchair, and he suddenly stands up and says, “Mein Führer, I can walk!” And the bomb goes off and blows up the whole world.