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Spector, 39, has been called a genius, often by himself. In a recording studio, he throws tantrums as easily as other producers turn dials, and hurls invective like a rock-'n'-roll redraft of Erich von Stroheim. His excesses of style and manner are legend, and some call him mad. He has waved loaded guns at musicians, made off with the master tapes of completed albums and held them, like booty, against the pleas of artists and record companies alike. He has been mythologized, parodied (in Brian De Palma's film Phantom of the Paradise, as the satanic superproducer) and eulogized by musicians, rock critics and Tom Wolfe (in one of his best pieces of razzmatazz, The First Tycoon of Teen). The vaulting arrangements and majestic delirium of songs such as Be My Baby and He's a Rebel and River Deep-Mountain High and You 've Lost That Lovin' Feeling have been endlessly imitated. They have never been equaled, except by Spector himself. Outside attempts to duplicate "the Spector wall of sound" only ring hollow, like a Salvation Army rock band playing in a subway tunnel. What is clear, past all the self-perpetuating mythology, is that Phil Spector has been responsible for some of rock's greatest records. End of the Century proves that greatness is not necessarily past history.
It hasn't always seemed so. Joey Ramone's avowed ambition—"We're after the real fanatics. We want the loyal, dedicated kids, the real nuts"—pointed him in Specter's direction. Phil, presumably, would know plenty about reaching the real nuts. All those vintage Spector-produced hits by the Ronettes, Crystals, Darlene Love and the Righteous Brothers were just the sort of sound the Ramones were shooting for. "Little symphonies for the kids," Spector once called these songs.
But for a while he seemed to have lost his touch. His early '70s work with the Beatles, especially Lennon, was big-spirited and lavish, but brought him an unaccustomed critical drubbing. His marriage to Ronnie, lead singer of the Ronettes, broke up in 1973. He was in at least one serious auto accident and underwent extensive surgery and facial restoration. His records after that—albums by Dion and Leonard Cohen, singles by Cher and Darlene Love—were as black as the vinyl they were pressed on. Even the upbeat numbers sounded funereal. The little symphonies became requiems celebrated inside a Wurlitzer.