Herb Alpert: More Than Meets The Eye Or Ear

EVERY WEDNESDAY morning, at about ten o'clock, I make my way down the narrow lanes winding out of the Hollywood Hills, past the ivy-covered cottages which house the hippies, into Laurel Canyon, through the complexities of Hollywood and Sunset Boulevards, to a pretty little flower-hung studio lot on North La Brea Avenue where, until sundown, I write whatever seems appropriate to the needs of the trumpet player Herb Alpert, who is more than meets the eye, or ear.