Funny, entertaining and also chilling: my encounter with Phil Spector

I had two images of Phil Spector. First, the fabled musical revolutionary whose 'Wall of Sound' production style changed rock 'n' roll into art, with an unstoppable string of hits from 1958 through 1964 - Da-Doo-Ron-Ron, Be My Baby, You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'. Put out of business briefly by the Beatles invasion, he came roaring back in 1969, producing the Fab Four's goodbye album Let It Be and later John Lennon's solo work. In short, he was the world's greatest record producer.

Second, the legendary monster, who cheated his artists out of their royalties, a wig fetishist in five-inch heels, and a gun nut who once fired a handgun just past John Lennon's head; a paranoid, reclusive millionaire who lived, surrounded by bodyguards, in a 30-room castle outside Los Angeles. Now he was on trial for the murder of a washed-up Hollywood starlet, Lana Clarkson, found slumped in a chair in the hallway of his home, dead from a gunshot inside her mouth. It was pure Hollywood Babylon.

In 50 years he had never let a filmmaker into his life. But in March 2007, with his musical legacy likely to be eclipsed by what was to be his first murder trial, he was willing to let me and producer Anthony Wall in to make a BBC Arena documentary.

The first time I went up to the Castle, with its series of gates opening for my car and shutting behind it, I was half expecting a scary experience, given Spector's reputation. I drew some comfort from the probability that his 30 or so guns had all been confiscated by the police.

But Spector couldn't have been more welcoming, and courteous. It rapidly became clear that he was a hilarious storyteller with a mischievous wit. I noticed how badly his hands were shaking, as if he had Parkinson's, and he told me he was being treated for something with a medication which, as it turns out, is something I also take. If I take more than a minimum dose, it gives me slight tremors, so Spector's dose must be bigger than mine, I mused.

He answered with a twinkle in his eye that, with his hands shaking like that, maybe the jurors wouldn't be able to believe he could hold a gun steadily enough to shoot someone. Talk about gallows humour! I think this often gets him into trouble.

Spector couldn’t have been more welcoming... he was a hilarious storyteller with a mischievous witReturning to the subject of music, I suggested that he was seen as part of the big three who changed rock 'n' roll, along with The Beatles and Bob Dylan.

He looked at me indulgently and said: "Robert Zimmerman? You'd think that after 40 years he'd have learnt to play the harmonica by now." As it turned out, he always referred to Dylan as Zimmerman, his original name. Except, strangely, when the camera was running.

Still, the atmosphere could change at the drop of a hat. In our hours of conversation, there were two such moments. The first after I'd left him a copy of a previous documentary I had made. It was about the writer James Ellroy and his search for the murderer of his mother. The next day when I went back to the Castle he was cold with rage and wouldn't look at me.

"If I'd known you were friends with those fucking homicide detectives, I would never have let you into my home. Those bastards Ellroy hangs out with are the same cops who're trying to get me put away."

It turned out that a couple of the homicide squad cops in the Ellroy film were also involved in the Spector investigation. What the hell was I thinking, giving Phil the film to watch? I scrambled to turn things around.

I pointed out that in the long set-piece of their 'feast of death' dinner with Ellroy, I focused on them chewing on bloody steak and guzzling red wine while they talked trash about murdered