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Tearing Down The Wall of Sound: The Rise and Fall of Phil Spector is nothing if not timely. The biography by British journalist Mick Brown has been released just as Spector’s murder trial is a daily focus of Court TV. Brown got the last major interview with Spector mere weeks before he allegedly shot B-movie actress Lana Clarkson, and naturally decided to expand it into a full-dress account of the former Tycoon of Teen. With admirable sourcing and synthesizing of previous material, Brown covers the legendary rock and roll producer’s life in a thorough, ultimately damning fashion: The only thing a reader is left wondering is how Spector avoided a murder rap for so long.

Medicated to the gills, suffering from short man’s disease, thinning hair and a pathological need to be noticed, psychologically damaged from his father’s suicide, his mother’s coldness and his young son’s death and, oh yeah, armed to the teeth and surrounded by bodyguards, Spector is a walking WMD set to go off. It’s proof once again that fame and money can insulate you: Here is a guy who should have been involuntarily committed to rehab or extensive therapy years ago. (That picture above says it all, doesn’t it?)

Brown, to his credit, balances every outrageous anecdote with an understanding of the mental troubles and insecurities that have plagued Spector throughout his life. For all his wild-man actions, Spector can be an intelligent, thoughtful person (he is a student of history and Lincoln, and was a close friend to Lenny Bruce). But he is also a gonzo madman and an inexcusable louse. He had the ability to draw both men and women seductively into his orbit (Nancy Sinatra was dating him just before Clarkson’s death.) But his control freak side also led him to routinely screw friends and associates and constantly badger women. He virtually imprisoned Ronnie Spector in their home. Perhaps most unforgivable, he adopted three children and then ignored them.

Brown is such a skilled interpreter of the nuances of Spector’s complex personality that you might even feel a tinge of pity for Spector. We just had to listen to the legend; he had to live with it, an impossible task. In Brown’s interview, which forms the spine of the book, Spector admits his problems and keeps saying he’s trying to be “a reasonable man” and a responsible parent to his daughter. You get the sense of a man desperately trying to get through each day without slipping over the edge, a rock ‘n’ roll Norma Desmond alone in his creepy castle in an unfashionable section of Los Angeles, wondering how the times have passed him by.

Of course, a little of this detail goes a long way, and Brown spends much of the book piling on bad-boy antic after bad-boy antic. At 452 pages, the book could have been a lot shorter. I would have preferred to see Brown devote more time to analyzing Spector’s actual career, but that doesn’t sell, naturally. I guess I am in the minority that feels Spector is undeniably talented, but possibly overrated. In my opinion, he produced one great album — the Christmas album, which I think will be his lasting contribution to pop music. And, yes, he undoubtedly helped fashion about a dozen great singles — “Be My Baby,” “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling,” “He’s A Rebel,” “Da Doo Ron Ron,” among others. He co-wrote “Spanish Harlem” and played the closing guitar solo on “On Broadway.” And he created the dense Wall of Sound technique, which I have always had mixed feelings about, probably because the maniacally controlling Spector has never allowed a properly mixed CD release that would allow us to hear its roar like listeners did on the 45 rpm singles. But its influence on everybody from Brian Wilson to Bruce Springsteen to this year’s It Girl, Amy Winehouse, can’t be denied. As for Spector’s work with the Beatles, John Lennon and George Harrison, I don’t think his production is why people are still listening to “Imagine” and “My Sweet Lord,” but he gets his props for it.

So, put that all together and it’s an excellent career, but does that really make him, as so many claim (including Spector, I’m sure), the great producer/innovator in rock history? I don’t think so. I think the Phil Spector mystique has papered over the Phil Spector product (although if Spector ever allows the release of his voluminous archived material, lots of sides by the Crystals and Ronettes that he didn’t think worthy of his legend, then I might have to revise my opinion.) Basically, Spector stopped growing, and personal problems clearly kept him from reaching his highest potential. You also could argue that he was a one-trick pony and didn’t know how to vary his production techniques, which made him quickly obsolete when his sound went out of fashion (Did you know he was on the same plane with the Beatles when they came to America? Flying in with his conquerors: Delicious irony.) And, perhaps most important, he has succeeded in downplaying the very important contributions of his performers, especially Darlene Love, and the Brill Building songsmiths who wrote most of the material.

In the end, Spector had a good run of four-five years, but he didn’t leave the mark that George Martin left with the Beatles, or Brian Wilson (whom Spector seems to be irrationally jealous of) did with “Pet Sounds,” or that Berry Gordy’s stable of writers, producers and performers did with Motown or Atlantic’s team did with a wide variety of performers or Jimmy Miller did with the Stones. Phil Spector seems to be most famous for a sound rather than a body of songs, and mostly for being unpredictable, outrageous and a reclusive talent that never went as far as it should. And, of course, he is now likely to be best known for the Clarkson death, even if it doesn’t eventually hold up in a court of law (and considering the recent streak of celebrities charged with murder, the odds may be with Spector.)

Mick Brown’s book is sturdy, well-written in a journalistic fashion and compulsively readable. He’s done his interviews and his research. He presents Phil Spector unvarnished, and it’s quite a spectacle. It leaves you with a decidedly less than loving feeling for its sad, odious and screwed-up subject.

(Cross-posted at www.badfortheglass.blogspot.com)