The recent Grammy Awards featured separate segments honoring the long careers of the Beach Boys and Glen Campbell. The show didn’t mention that Mr. Campbell toured and played as a Beach Boy in the mid-1960s, before the start of his solo career. In those days Mr. Campbell was one of the all-purpose studio musicians who were loosely known as the Wrecking Crew. They are the subject of Kent Hartman’s nostalgic, book-length hagiography, which has the glib but potent excitement of a collection of greatest hits.

The Wrecking Crew was not supposed to attract attention. Groups like the Beach Boys, the Byrds, the Monkees and many others didn’t care to point out why they sounded so much better on records than on the road. But Wrecking Crew members could work miracles, like the time when, with only three minutes’ worth of studio time allotted them, they played a first-take, no-glitch version of “The Little Old Lady From Pasadena.” As Roy Halee, Simon and Garfunkel’s engineer and co-producer, once said of a top Wrecking Crew bassist: “You never have to stop the tape because of a mistake by Joe Osborn. There just aren’t any.”

Hal Blaine, who justifiably calls himself “10 of Your Favorite Drummers” on his Web site and played his drums at the bottom of an elevator shaft for Simon and Garfunkel’s “Boxer,” claims to have to come up with the Wrecking Crew’s name. Musicians like Mr. Blaine showed up in Los Angeles in the early 1960s, were put on the map by Phil Spector (Mr. Blaine plays the ace drumbeats that kick off “Be My Baby”), were appropriated by Brian Wilson for the Beach Boys’ “Pet Sounds” and became hotly in demand. Old-school session players complained that these guys (and one woman, Carol Kaye, who played guitar as a stealth Beach Girl) were wrecking the business for everyone else.

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Mr. Blaine’s timing was perfect and not only when it came to percussion. He and other Wrecking Crew regulars made their mark in an era when Top 40 singles really mattered, and rock acts sometimes became famous before they could actually play. “The Wrecking Crew” cites a Byrds recording session for “Mr. Tambourine Man” when every Byrd except one — Roger McGuinn, then still known as Jim — was kicked out of the studio so that better musicians could fill in.

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There is no success story too corny for Mr. Hartman. And most of his book’s chapters follow the same pattern. Along comes a young, little-known aspiring musician like the teenage piano player and songwriter who had such a run of luck beginning in 1966. This kid was brought into a Wrecking Crew-populated studio by Johnny Rivers, who had his own record label. (The Wrecker Larry Knechtel played killer piano on Mr. Rivers’s version of “Rockin’ Pneumonia and the Boogie Woogie Flu.”) Then Mr. Rivers introduced him.