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A DOCUMENTARY

All Mixerman documentary copy is presented just as it appears in the hardbound book, The Daily Adventures of Mixerman. © 2002, 2004, 2006 Mixerman Multimedia, Inc. - All Rights Reserved. No part of the following web-based document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

Post subject: Week 4: The Daily Adventures of Mixerman - A Documentary

Day 16: The Looming Of The Mooks
Posted: August 20, 12:03 a.m. — Week 4

It seems that Willy is no longer interested in parties, audiences or the like.

I can’t really blame Willy for having participated in the festivities on Thursday night. After all, he IS human, and I can’t say that I wouldn’t have done the same were I able to go straight home to bed and not to young wide-eyed children wondering why Daddy’s acting so weird. I’m not sure what it is about Willy. He’s one of the most likeable fellows I’ve ever met. I genuinely enjoy hanging with the dude. Unfortunately, if he continually lets the band run this session when they clearly have no clue how to run it, this album isn’t going to ever be completed. I still can’t figure out what Willy’s angle is. Does he want this session to self-destruct? I wish I understood his motivations. But at the moment, I don’t.

On Sunday, Willy set a mandate. There would be no more “bitches” (his words, not mine) or posse at these sessions. He told me this mandate over the phone, and in a VERY stern manner, as if I were somehow a part of the problem.

Uh, excuse me! Willy! Hello?! You’re telling ME this? I thought to myself.

I’ve been telling him for days that he should get rid of the girls. Why the hell was he telling ME no more girlfriends? Perhaps he was worried that I would bring my wife or something. Who knows?

I really have no idea how or why Willy’s decision to put an end to visitation came about. Perhaps a two-day hangover, along with the realization that there was absolutely no recorded music worth a damn on this project made him re-evaluate his purpose in life. Perhaps the looming visit from Jeramiah Weasel was on his mind. Perhaps Willy figured that he’d better have something to play for him, although I doubt it. Jeramiah is small potatoes. After all, he’s just a minion with a very large opinion. Regardless of the reason, Willy was making another good decision in a not-so-timely manner. But at least he made the decision. Halle-fucking-lu-jah!

We began today by listening to the “powder” takes the boys had done on Thursday and Friday’s marathon session. The guitar parts pretty much sucked, but Willy thought the bass parts were fairly good. Perhaps that had something to do with the fact that the only sober person in the studio was actually the one babysitting and directing Harmon that night. Plus let’s not forget that for some inexplicable reason, Harmon could actually PLAY all gaked up. I actually considered purchasing some gak to have handy for the upcoming Harmon takes (and Dumb Ass for that matter), but I thought better of that plan, as it was fraught with all sorts of built-in disasters. That harebrained scheme was best left to the Ralph Kramdens of the world.

With the bass parts in decent condition on two of the songs, and the bleed having proven to be only problematic if the room mics were turned up too loud, Willy decided to move onto guitars. Yore wanted to use a VOX AC30 amp. That was Yore’s amp of choice on everything. Anytime we were tracking, the first amp he would plug into was the AC30. Then Willy would convince him to use the Marshall, or the Mesa Boogie, or the Matchless that we had available. We had spent a good deal of time selecting an amp for this song during the tracking process. Willy liked the Mesa Boogie, and that’s what we used when we tracked, but why then was Yore using the VOX again? It seemed a bit counter-productive, since we had already spent the time to select a sound that worked well with the song and drums.

Don’t get me wrong, AC30s are great amplifiers. In fact, I love a good VOX, and I use them often in productions. But they could hardly be considered the modern sound that Willy was looking for. AC30s are 40-year-old amplifiers—not that the age of the amplifier matters.

“Modern” can be very elusive as time marches forward, and if you’re not up on the latest music, modern can very easily pass you by. AC30 amps have a sound that one might call classic, but a definitive classic sound scares the hell out of record companies, and when they listen to classic, they inevitably think something’s wrong with the production. The real bitch is that sometimes classic is modern, but you just have to keep up with the times to know when that is, and then take advantage of that window of opportunity to be both classic and modern simultaneously. Regardless of all that, what the record companies REALLY want is “now,” because “now” is something that record companies understand.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, by the time a record comes out, “now” was “yesterday” and the record is in the shitter for not being modern enough, even if it somehow happens to be classic. Occasionally, a new modern sound is born from some innovative band, and every major label in existence then scrambles to sign anything and everything that sounds remotely similar to that band. Then producers, wanting to remain modern themselves, will try to make records with the similar bands, so that they can be a part of what’s “hot.” Of course, none of it really matters, because no matter what, any sound that happens to become “hot”, “now” or whatever, can be directly attributed to the Beatles. The Beatles are as classic as they come, and the Beatles used VOX AC30 amplifiers on their recordings. So, why the hell classic scares a record company is beyond me, since without the Beatles, we’d be fucked. There’s going to be a quiz on this later, so try to keep up.

The bands that typically push “modern” in order to make forward progress are unsigned bands that make albums with a seasoned producer, who takes the band under his/her wing to try and make a record that pushes the envelope of “now.” Since there is no label involved, “now” is no longer a constraint and “tomorrow” can be attempted at minimal risk. In these cases, the band will often times be signed with its first record left as is.

The record company that happens to sign a band with a finished record is always sure to put out a press release stating that the band’s record was actually the band’s demo—even though the demo was likely made by the same guy the label just HIRED to make a record for them. Guys that make records don’t MAKE demos. They make records that are meant to be signed as records. But labels don’t sign bands with records, they sign bands with demos and then decide whether they want them to make a record or use the demos. It’s all very fucked up and defies logic.

The most humorous part (or sad, depending on your perspective) of this process of making records is when the record company Mooks want the record to have a certain sound. The Mooks can’t make a record, so they hire a producer and then try to describe what they want the record to be to the producer. Usually Mooks choose very odd words for these descriptions like “happy,” or “green,” or “icy.” Then when you think you’ve finally come to understand what the hell a Mook means, half the time it turns out the Mook wanted the complete opposite of what he asked for. The other half of the time the Mook just out and out changed his mind because the Marketing Mook told the A&R Mook they can’t get the song on radio. Oops!

Then, of course, there are the conflicting Mook opinions, but I won’t get into that right now. Basically, you can’t listen to the Mooks at all because they’ll fuck you up every time. Of course, then there’s the catch-22 of this whole operation. Most producers are desirous to deliver an album that the Mooks are happy with because they want to be hired again. So producers are typically interested in what the Mooks want, and often times cover all the bases by recording what are essentially several different options of productions—leaving it for the mixer to sort out and decide which production works best for the song.

Don’t get me wrong. Not all producers are kiss asses, and not all record company people are Mooks. That would be like saying that all black men have long dicks.

I’m not a Mook bigot or anything like that. Some of my best friends are Mooks! If I worked for a record company, which isn’t entirely implausible, I might even be a Mook myself. If I were, I’d be damn proud of it!

Regardless of my futile attempts at disclaimers, what I have described in this diary certainly isn’t unusual in this business.

I can’t really blame record companies and producers for capitalizing on what is basically a musical fashion trend. Logic dictates, if the fashion is hot, then that is the product the company should put out. Right? Unfortunately, this practice is done to such extremes that all music comes out sounding the same as everything else in its genre. This leaves little room for diversity in sound and music. Even if a producer DOES make a record that strays from the current trends, or is possibly unique in some way, the record companies are sure to put the productions through a sort of homogenization process. I call them mixing factories, in which one of five highly paid major label mixers stamps out mixes just like his last, with little regard towards the music or the production. No record is treated differently from the next. The homogenization process doesn’t stop there though. The record must then be sent to a mastering engineer.

These days, the mastering engineer views his job as one of placing an identifiable sonic imprint on the record. More importantly, his job is to be sure that the record is “loud.” So the mastering engineer proceeds to stamp out every last bit of dynamic range by using what is called a brick wall limiter. Imagine what would happen to you were you to be stopped at a high rate of speed by a brick wall. SPLAT! Well, it’s no different when music hits a brick wall. The music becomes flattened, all depth is removed, and all changes in volume are eradicated.

With the dynamic range reduced to the point that the soft parts are the exact same volume as the loud parts, the mastering engineer has accomplished what is referred to in this industry as “loud.” Some mastering engineers, in an effort to make their records louder than the next, will make a record so loud it actually clips, which is a generally undesirable form of distortion (although there are certainly exceptions). Making records loud has become like a competition of sorts. But since little good comes of this competition and since it has been greatly destructive to the overall quality of records, we call it a war. A loudness war; and we’re in the middle of one now.

Interestingly, as these mastering engineers are making records loud, they are all the while complaining about how loud records are destructive to the quality of a recording. I don’t blame them for complaining, it’s true. Unfortunately, if they don’t make their records loud, the record companies, the producers, and even the engineers will often times bring their records to someone who will.

As I was listening to the guitar sound emanating from the speakers, I felt that it was a beautiful sound, and certainly believed it would have been appropriate for some song on the record—unfortunately, not this song. But we had been through this already, which is why we picked the Mesa Boogie after careful deliberation and much discussion. Meanwhile, Willy was pacing nervously, asking ME if I though that Yore’s sound was modern, and asking ME why Yore wasn’t using the Mesa Boogie.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

Willy, in his typical fashion, allowed Yore to lay down his AC30 parts, rationalizing that perhaps he could mix it in with the Boogie, which meant that I was going to need about eight tracks for guitars. Hopefully, we wouldn’t actually have eight guitar parts to be mixed together. I’ve been down that road before, and it’s usually quite messy.

After Yore had laid down his first guitar part, using the AC30, the singer, who I think had just come from a manicure as his finger nails were very shiny, wanted to lay down the double guitar part. Yore didn’t want the singer to play the doubles, because he felt he could play the doubles faster, and he could. The singer didn’t want Yore to play the doubles, because he felt the doubles would be better if they were played by someone else, and they would be. Willy decided to let THEM work it out as he went to get a fatty. This left me in the undesirable position of mediator, as I was asked point blank what my opinion was.

I wasn’t quite sure; one side of me wanted Yore to play it because I didn’t want to spend two hours recording a double guitar with a hack guitar player. The other side of me felt it would probably be better for the record if the singer played the doubles, as I find those to sound a little less manufactured. Personally, I thought that it would be best with NO double. It didn’t need a double. But that would have been a futile course, as the argument would have been to lay it down in case we decided LATER that we needed a double. When in doubt, ask a question.

“Well, are you more interested in a perfect double, or the sound of a second guitar player playing the same part?” I asked.

Willy had walked in at that particular moment and gave the old, “that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking about” routine.

After three hours of debate—I’m not exaggerating and it’s not the first time in my career that a discussion such as this has stopped a session for that many hours—the band and Willy finally came to the conclusion that it would be better if the singer did the doubles. Of course, after all that, Yore wanted to do his other guitar parts first. So that’s how we proceeded.

During the course of the three-hour debate, I visited Fingaz to see how he was doing. He was whipping through the editing jobs; in fact, he was almost done with the songs that we had recorded so far. This meant that, come this evening, Fingaz would be getting paid to just sit around, while we were finishing a couple of the songs. I’m sure he was getting a minimum of $500 a day, and he wasn’t going to have to do shit for several days, if we kept this course.

Not recording ALL of the basic tracks straight through is the most expensive way to make an album. That’s because the session is paying for drum rentals, some outboard gear rentals, a large tracking facility (as opposed to a smaller and cheaper studio for doing overdubs), and, of course, Fingaz. When the snare drums sit in the room at $50 a pop, and entire kits at $250 a pop, and editors are sitting around at $500 a pop, and the studio costs $1,800 because it’s a large tracking facility, it can hardly be considered working in a cost-effective manner.

Unfortunately, we were somewhat forced to work this way, as we are three weeks into the process and have relatively nothing to show for the time. The record company is going to want to hear SOMETHING. Most importantly, we still don’t know for sure that Cotton’s drums are going to pass muster. In my opinion, thus far, they barely pass. They are wholly average, and even after Fingaz’ really skilled editing jobs, they’re just OK. The real question is, can the drums be disguised in such a way that they work?

Willy obviously was a man that wanted a record with some feel. If he didn’t, we’d have gone into Alsihad already. The editing jobs would take entire days, and everything—including the guitars, bass and vocal, would be chopped up, tuned and put together again like a chicken nugget—which, in many cases, is reconstituted. That is the way many, many of today’s rock records are made.

If U2 were to put out Boy today, I contend that record would have been a sterile piece of shit. They really weren’t great players back then. But U2 had a vibe, and they were innovative, and the fact that they weren’t great players made the music all the more alive. Today, a young U2 band would have more than likely been destroyed by a producer and his Alsihad, that is, if they ever got signed at all.

We recorded Yore for a couple of hours, and had the distinct pleasure of his not really digging anything, and never having the decency of actually getting excited about his own record. When we finished with his parts, he insisted that he get to take a stab at his own double first. Willy agreed, but only if he did his doubles with a different guitar through the Mesa Boogie. Without saying a word, Yore complied. He recorded his double, and his guitars sounded GREAT. The combination of the Mesa Boogie and the VOX, supplied both classic AND modern guitar sounds simultaneously. What more could you ask for? Unfortunately, the singer had arrived, and took over the playing of guitar doubles.

With the passing of the guitar from Yore to the singer, like the passing of the family business from father to son, everything went to shit. The guitar suddenly sounded wretched. Willy was asking me what happened to the sound, as if I changed something. So I spent the next 20 minutes trying to make the guitar sound close to as good as it did when Yore was playing it, and to no avail.

As with just about any instrument—and I do believe I’ve said this before, but I can’t say it enough—the sound of a guitar lies squarely in the hands of the player. No amount of voodoo or engineering trickery can compensate for poor technique. So I tried to make the guitar sound as acceptable as possible, and we spent hours recording a part that had taken Paulie Yore only minutes to lay down. We did, however, complete the guitar parts on the song, which, when you think about it, is largely underwhelming.

Unless you happen to be on THIS session.

Mixerman

Week 4 Page 2:
The Daily Adventures of Mixerman

All Mixerman documentary copy is presented on PSW (with permission) just as it appears in the hardbound book, The Daily Adventures of Mixerman. © 2002, 2004 Mixerman Multimedia, Inc. — All Rights Reserved. No part of the following web-based document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

Day 17: Johnny Be Good
Posted: August 17, 12:44 a.m.

Johnny is an enigma.

Johnny, the front man and singer for Bitch Slap, is probably one of the more self-obsessed people on the planet. Johnny fixes his hair approximately 20 times an hour. Personally, I can’t tell any difference between the Johnny Ugly who starts to fix his hair, and the Johnny Handsome who's finished fixing his hair, mostly because, to Johnny, a good hairdo doesn’t appear to be a hairdo at all—quite the opposite really.

I, having no experience whatsoever in the cutting of hair, could easily cut his hair for him without anyone being the wiser. A chunk out here, a chunk out there, here a chunk, there a chunk, everywhere a chunk, chunk, and BAM we’re done. I’m not sure whether he teases it, as I’ve never actually caught him red-handed with a comb or anything, but I have my suspicions. He doesn’t seem to be a gel or hair spray kind of guy, although I think he might be surprised at all the extra time he would have if he just tried some. Perhaps if I bought him some hair spray for Christmas he would be able to get it messed up to perfection, and then spray it in place.

Johnny is the kind of guy you would expect all the girls would dig. He has a very symmetrical face with strong lines. He's definitely a handsome fellow. While he had an obvious obsession with shitty hair, that didn’t seem to be his only fetish.

Johnny Primper couldn’t ignore his appearance, for even a moment. I haven’t figured out how the hell he’s going to sing, since between hair fixes he’s constantly working on his teeth with this odd toothpick-like utensil with a string and a compact mirror that he keeps in what seems to be some kind of purse. Of course, Johnny claims his purse is some sort of European wallet.

Whatev.

I have this sneaky feeling that Johnny secretly wishes he were European, or at least what he THINKS is European, because he hasn’t changed his pants once in over three weeks on this session. I’ve gotten into long conversations with him on this subject. He likes to go into these long drawn-out monologues about how washing jeans destroys them. He will talk endlessly in detail as to how they shrink, they fade, they soften (since when are soft jeans a bad thing?), and, most egregious of all, how the blue color will blend into the white threads throughout the jeans. It seems that rather than using the more modern cleaning methods of soap and water—or even dry cleaning solution, for that matter—he prefers the age-old tradition of air washing.

Air washing is the process of attaching the jeans onto a clothesline from the waistband allowing the full length of the leg to hang down, thus permitting the air to permeate the entire jean and, thereby, washing them. I suppose there must be some merit to the technique, because he hasn't started to stink or anything. I can assure you, however, that if Johnny Wellkept starts transforming into Johnny Stench, without hesitation, I’ll tackle him down, remove his jeans, and wash them my damn self. I have to endure plenty on this session, but I’m certainly not going to put up with my control room air being violated!

Johnny Fashion is very into his Thrift Store shirts and his vintage, 1980s-era Air Jordan sneakers that apparently Japanese sneaker collectors would pay thousands of dollars for. His shirts cost him $10 at thrift stores, but to hear him talk about it, they are like rare one-of-a-kind artifacts, and he can cite manufacturers, material, the year of production, and the estimated amount of the shirts remaining in existence today. Personally, the way I figure it, if you’re shopping in thrift stores for used $10 shirts, you might possibly consider selling your very expensive sneaker collection for the opportunity to, perhaps, buy a brand new shirt at Saks. But that’s just me, and this diary isn’t about me.

I wouldn’t say that Johnny was a particularly nice person. He puts up a good front. He sometimes can appear to be a nice person. He was cool when I was mixing for him a few years back. But these days Johnny Mr. Nice Guy can transform into Johnny Asshole in no time flat, especially when Paulie Yore is around. How these two formed a band together is beyond me. Johnny and Paulie hate each other with a passion, and they haven’t even made a record yet. At least John Lennon and Paul McCartney supposedly made a successful album or two together before THEY expressed their disdain for each other.

I don’t think it’s by accident that Johnny's the lead singer of the band. Not because he’s an exceptional singer, because he’s not. But rather because much like a three-year-old, he is egocentric and is of the belief that the world revolves around him. If one tries to have a normal conversation with him, it is only a matter of moments before the conversation is manipulated into a self-indulgent conversation about his experiences in life. Once that happens, one can’t get a word in edgewise and might as well not even try. Usually, I just allow my mind to wander elsewhere as he chatters away. If somehow you are allowed a moment to speak of your own experiences, he cuts you off and goes right back to talking about himself. He finds very little humor in the words of others but finds himself to be absolutely hysterical. He’s the kind of guy that I loathed having to work with. If you think about it, he’s probably the kind of guy that YOU loathe to work with.

On my way to the studio today, Willy called me and asked me to start recording guitar parts for the next song, and said that he’d be in later. This sounded like a good plan to me, until I got to the studio.

Upon entering the Womb, I heard the familiar sound of vocal scales that many vocalists use to warm up with, although not usually rock vocalists. It didn’t sound quite like a yodeler with gout, so I was able to rule out a pending Harmon Neenot vocal session. With that welcome revelation, I was filled with an infusion of courage to investigate. So I followed the sound of the phantom voice. The howls were coming from Fingaz’ makeshift editing suite, and as I arrived, I saw that it was, in fact, Johnny. He had seen me. Damn!

“Hey, man. I’m glad to see you!” Johnny said.

Just moments before he saw me, I knew exactly what was going on. Johnny wanted to sing. If only I had gotten out of there before he caught me, I could have started guitars, and he would have probably abandoned singing. But he DID see me.

“Hey, Johnny, what’s going on?” I asked in a cautiously friendly tone.

“I’m getting ready to lay down a vocal,” Johnny responded, leaving little doubt as to his intentions.

Oh, joy!

Without even an opportunity to respond, Johnny went back to singing his scales. I can’t, for the life of me, understand why we don't set up our plans for the next day before we leave the studio each night. That would be a very good preventive measure for this sort of situation. Regardless, I certainly wasn’t going to let Johnny just leave things at that.

“Willy called me this morning and wanted me to cut guitars with you guys on the next song,” I interrupted. “Seeing as we’re set up for guitars, it might be more efficient for us to continue,” I concluded in what I felt was a very concise and logical explanation.

“Well, I’d rather record a vocal,” he responded, in a very self-serving and emotional manner. It was obvious that his Mind Tricks were working on me, as I was frozen from pursuing this cause any further. Besides, if he was inspired to do a vocal, who am I to tell him to wait for the sake of procedure? It doesn’t really make a difference whether we record guitars or vocals today. The only potential problem is that producers typically prefer to be around for vocals. The vocals are money. Nothing on the record is more important than the vocal. But Johnny Adamant wasn't leaving me much choice.

Surreptitiously, I instructed Lance to call Willy and leave a message telling him we were recording vocals and then to set up for such activities. I wanted to hear what Johnny sounded like on several varieties of microphones, so I had Lance set them up all in a row for comparison.

As Lance and I prepared to record a vocal, a stranger entered the Womb. I don’t like it when strangers en-ter the Womb, but that’s inevitable I suppose. The stranger was a very short man in his mid-fifties, wearing a sky blue Izod shirt under a brown tweed jacket and brown wool pants. He had his extra-long side hair combed over his bald head, and he wore perfectly round glasses. He spoke in what I can only describe as a boom-ing and overly-dramatic voice.

“I was told that I could find Johnny Handsome here,” he said to me.

“Indeed,” I said, in a language I felt he could understand, as I pointed towards the shitter.

The short man disappeared toward Johnny Coyote’s howls, which abruptly ended as the two of them came back together in silence. The stranger chose to introduce himself, as I’m sure he figured it was highly unlikely that Johnny would think of such a thing. Apparently, the stranger was a vocal coach. His name was A. Scott Ascot (I’ll call him Ascot for short).

“Oh, this ought to be good,” I thought to myself.

Ascot proceeded to coach Johnny with these very deep-breathing exercises, which is fine by me, what the hell do I care if Johnny hyperventilates before he sings. This guy really took breathing seriously. You could tell that breathing was truly exciting for him. I mean, breathing was like sex for this guy.

“Yes! Yes!” he’d yell as if he was mid-orgasm. Then he told ME to join in. “You! You must breathe too!” he said to me. “Everyone must breathe. Breathe in . . . out . . . deeply . . . DEEPLY!!!!

Who me? Why the fuck should I breathe? Johnny’s been wearing the same damn pants for 17 days, I’m not going to breathe deeply anywhere near the dude.

Ascot was a bit of a square fellow. He spoke very proper English, although he didn’t have an English accent or anything like that. He was exactly as you’d imagine the nutty professor to be before Eddie Murphy did the movie and changed that image forever. I couldn’t help but be amused by this little Halfling of a man with his zest for life and his free expression. As I listened to him speak, I wondered to myself how a conversation between Ascot and Fingaz might go.

“Yes, yes, very nice to meet you, Fingers?” Ascot would say overly enunciating his name.

“Word,” Fingaz would respond.

“I hear you’re an editor,” Ascot would continue.

“Word,” Fingaz would reply. “I hea’ you a pervert, Yo."

Suddenly I was snapped out of such thoughts by his hysterical yelling.

“Breathe! Breathe!”

I decided to exit stage left.

When I returned, Johnny and Ascot had completed their breathing exercises. I asked Johnny to sing a little bit of the first verse and chorus on each mic as I switched to whatever mic he was standing in front of at the time and recorded the examples. When Johnny sang on the first mic, Ascot announced from the back of the room, “Wonderful!”

Yeah, right. It sounded like shit, what the hell was HE talking about. So I tried the next mic. “Eeeeeven better!” he yelled in a deep tone from behind me. It was worse. So I tried a C12. “That’s the one!!!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, this time jumping up and down in his excitement.

“Do you mind?” I said turning to him.

He apologized, and as much as I really wanted to pick another mic other than the one that he screamed was the one, it was without a doubt the best choice for this song. Once I swallowed my pride and selected the mic that my newfound dwarf comrade had deemed “the one,” I had Lance move the other mics out of Johnny’s way, and I had Johnny sing the chorus for me, as I made some adjustments to the mic pre42 and the compressor.

For the next 2 hours we cut vocals. Ascot took to commenting from the back of the room.

“No, no, he’s not warm. He must be warmer!” Ascot said, telling me to erase it. Oh, great! Now I had Rush Limbaugh booming out orders on which takes to keep and which ones to burn. After a few takes, I had Johnny come in to the control room and listen. Normally, I would have discussed what I thought about the vocals that he sang, but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise with Mr. Excitement in the back of the room providing misguided advice. We continued on, recording six more takes, each one getting progressively worse from the direction given by Ascot.

By the eighth take, Ascot declared from behind me, “He’s almost there!”

On the ninth take Ascot inexplicably exclaimed, “He’s past it! He’s past it! His voice is shot for the day. He must rest!”

Did I miss something? Or did we go from “almost there” to “past it” in one take? What the hell was this guy talking about?

In between each and every take, Mr. Ascot would talk to Johnny about his breathing and opening his vowel sounds. Every take got progressively worse. By the time we were on the ninth take, Johnny was starting to sound like an opera singer.

I decided to play the last and most operatic of all the takes for Johnny Opera. He had a very stoic look on his face as he listened to his vocal that rivaled the three tenors’ latest release. After I stopped tape, Johnny decided to get a second opinion, and it was about time, too. He turned and asked me what I thought. So I told him.

“I think you’re in a rock ‘n roll band, and you should stop worrying about classic technique and start worrying about whether you’re providing us with a compelling vocal performance,” I said bluntly.

“So you’re not compelled?” he asked.

I sat there for a moment, deadpan, hardly believing that he actually asked me that. My initial thought was “der,” but as stupid a question as that was, it was considerably more intelligent than the large majority of Dumb Ass' questions. Even idiotic questions deserve a straightforward answer.

“Do I look compelled?” I asked dryly.

So we started over. Ascot, sensing his effectiveness waning, conveniently had another appointment, and he exited stage left as Johnny started to sing a vocal like he meant it.

Willy finally arrived and was happy that I had let Johnny Adamant sing, given that he was obviously “feeling it.” After the vocal takes were done, Willy and Johnny set forth to comp (short for compile) the vocal, which is the process of selecting the best sections, lines, or even words from several vocal takes and transferring them onto a new track, thus making a compilation. This new track is often called the comp track or the comp vocal. Usually, I do the comps with the producer, but Johnny wanted to participate and three's a crowd.

In my opinion, it’s better for the singer to let someone else comp the vocal and then listen fresh to the comp as a whole performance. This prevents the singer or artist from becoming over-saturated, and consequently unable to adequately judge the comp as a whole. Aside from that, singers tend to get very preoccupied with pitch over performance, and good producers are interested in performance over pitch. This case was no different, as I listened to the back-and-forth discussions between Willy and Johnny on pitch vs. performance.

After about an hour, Willy and Johnny had come to an agreement on the comp, and I put it together for them by using their comp sheet. A comp sheet is basically a lyric sheet with notations as to which take is to be used for which lines. When the comp was done, Willy and Johnny listened to it and felt that it was a good vocal. Then Willy decided we should do harmonies.

At that point, Harmon was hovering in the room like a vulture, and he had every intention of doing the harmonies. Harmon was trying to force his will upon everyone in the room by setting himself up at the mic and preparing, as if he’d be surprised at the notion that Johnny wanted to sing the background vocals. But Harmon is not skilled in Mind Tricks, and Johnny Mindblock would have nothing of it. An hour-long discussion ensued, which included the usual smoking of fatties and circular conversations.

Eventually, after carefully weighing the ramifications of either decision, Willy chose to have Harmon Neenot sing the harmonies. He exited stage left, knowing just how tedious the session would soon become. I spent the next three hours, trying to coax a dying seal to sing in harmony.

I can assure you, that’s no easy feat.

Mixerman

Week 4 Page 3:
The Daily Adventures of Mixerman

Day 18: Rollin' Fatties
Posted: August 21, 11:44 p.m.

When I awoke this morning, I realized that, once again, I had forgotten last night to establish today’s precise plan of attack. It’s become obvious that Willy prefers to be the kind of General that gives me my marching orders on a need-to-know basis at the beginning of the day. Unfortunately, I must relay those commands to a bunch of nimrods that clearly prefer anarchy over any kind of order.

I didn’t even bother to call Willy this morning, as what he was planning to record was far less relevant than WHO actually had a bug up his ass to be recording. Once that band member stepped forward at the start of the day, then and only then would I know what we were recording—by default.

Today, it was Dumb Ass who was standing in the room performing lame and futile attempts of Mind Tricks. He, being of little brain, was not able to control me, but I figured I’d let him have his way. So I obliged him.

Dumb Ass was setting up what looked to be brand spanking new timbales in the room. I actually laughed out loud at the thought of Dumb Ass being so idiotic as to lay timbales on the only production that I could think of that might be ready for percussion parts. But he couldn’t understand what I found so humorous, and with that, my laughter turned to horror.

“So . . . we’re recording timbales?” I asked casually and cautiously.

“Duhuh, duhuh, you got it!” Dumb Ass stated with his usual and tiresome retard shtick.

As I walked away, once again baffled as to why a retard would ACT like a retard, I found Lance and asked him to set up a microphone, which was all well and good until Dumb Ass informed me that he wanted the timbales to be stereo. Ah, yes, stereo. So, I had Lance set up two microphones for stereophonic recording.

It seems that everyone wants his instrument in stereo. Sometimes a stereo presentation of an instrument is a good thing. Usually, such presentation is not a good thing. Don’t get me wrong, I tend to use the entire stereo image when mixing. I like very wide mixes with elements of the mix coming from the far sides of the stereo field. But unrealistic stereo presentations of a single instrument across the sound field are not, in my experience, an effective use of stereo. While there ARE two timbales, were you actually in the room with them, their sound would have a specific point of origin.

Still, it wasn’t an unreasonable request. If Cotton wanted his timbales in stereo, I was happy to oblige. They could always be spread across a diminished field from center to right. They could even be broken down to a mono signal later, so long as I was diligent in my mic placement, for stereo miking does not always break down cleanly in mono due to phase cancellation.

Phase cancellation is a phenomenon that occurs when there are more than two microphones in close proximity to one another. Each microphone has a pick-up pattern. When two microphones are close each another, the pick-up patterns of the microphones will have intersections. These intersections will cancel each other out, and there will actually be a cancellation of the sound wave and the sound as we perceive it. There are 360 degrees of phase. If two signals are 180 degrees out of phase from each other, they will cancel each other out completely. No sound will be heard.

Lesser degrees of phase will cause lesser amounts of cancellation, but they will still cause some cancellation. If there are severe phase coherency issues, the microphones will not combine properly in mono, and there will be a reduction in volume of the instrument. As an engineer, I must be careful that the stereo image breaks down well to mono, or there could be problems down the road. There are miking techniques that help to minimize this problem.

Some automobile manufacturers use phasing to cancel out the sound of the engine, making the cockpit completely devoid of engine sound. Occasionally, on TV you might see two people with microphones get too close to each other. You’ll notice that the sound starts to get weird and even disappear. This is a prime example of phase cancellation.

I‘m not quite sure if Dumb Ass was trying to impress some Latin girl from his English-as-a-Second Language class (it’s well documented that his mother was a poor immigrant from Great Britain), or if he had just gotten a set of timbales for his birthday. Tito Puente, he was not, and the sound of a syncopated Latin timbale beat on top of a shuffle was just too much for me to bear. As far as I was concerned, it was high time that Lance get the recording experience his uncle so very much wanted for him.

“Lance!” I yelled out, as he was kibitzing with Fingaz in the shitter.

“You’re in charge. Call me when he’s done,” I said.

I left poor Lance to get the experience of a lifetime as I took a lesson from Willy and exited stage left. He was now on his way to becoming a professional recordist. With my handing over the reins, he would have an “additional engineering” credit. In the not so distant future, Full Sail43 students would be listening to his records and marveling at how great his timbale recordings were. Lance had completed the transition from assistant to engineer in an instant.

Of course, when I had returned, Lance was actually well on his way to getting a FULL engineering credit, because Dumb Ass had managed to record what I could only describe as a complete percussion cluster-fuck. Aside from the timbales which were excessive in their own right, Dumb Ass also recorded an egg shaker, a tambourine, a wood block (I swear I haven’t seen a wood block since high school), a cowbell, congas, and maracas—none of which actually went with the song or the production. Worse yet, Dumb Ass made sure to fill in every 32nd note of the production with some form of percussion, and he did so with an incredible lack of skill or understanding of what excessive out-of-place, out-of-time percussion parts can do to a rock production. I decided to throw caution to the wind.

“I think Ricky Martin uses less percussion than that,” I said.

Dumb Ass laughed uncomfortably and continued listening to his rhythmic disaster. After about 30 seconds passed by, it was as if my words somehow percolated the tiny little area in his brain that the spoken word must successfully permeate in order to be processed and understood. He finally replied to my comment.

“I doubt it. Ricky Martin uses A LOT of percussion.”

I suppose I shouldn’t expect that Dumb Ass might be able to detect the subtle differences between sarcasm and discussion.

When Dumb Ass was finished laying down his out-of-time percussion solo over the full course of the production, he asked me if I would make him a percussion-only mix.

“Will you be playing it for your mother?” I asked.

“Noooooooo,” Dumb Ass replied craning his neck out like a chicken. Had I an axe, I might have chopped his head off.

So, I had Lance make a percussion mix for Dumb Ass’ future enjoyment, and then I went to take a leak in Fingaz’ bathroom, as I was not in the mood for a journey to the Trough.

“What are you doin’, Yo?!!!” Fingaz asked in a very distressed manner.

“I just finished eating some asparagus for lunch, and I thought I’d share,” I replied. “I thought you were done editing.”

“I’m checking, Dog! You don’t have to go number two do ya?”

Fingaz made me laugh with that inquiry, and I began missing the toilet, which seemed to upset him even more. I think I got some urine on his parka which lay dangerously close to the commode, but somehow he didn’t notice, and I didn’t dare tell him of the accident. He was, without a doubt, the most serious and uptight Wegro I’ve ever met.

I have no idea why I was in such a mood today. Sometimes, I get like this when I feel the entire world has reached the epitome of insanity. Sometimes lack of sleep makes it worse. I think it’s some sort of deep-rooted coping method that prevents me from going postal or something. When I get like this, my purpose in life is to fuck with everybody that crosses my path. No one is immune. Unfortunately, there was no one left. Paulie and Johnny weren’t around and Willy still hadn’t arrived.

When Willy finally did arrive, he was VERY interested in hearing the percussion parts that Dumb Ass was so excited about. Apparently, Dumb Ass had greeted him at the patio and informed Willy just how much his percussion parts were helping the song.

Yeah, right.

Willy was very keen on hearing them, and being mildly amused at the prospect of Willy’s reaction, I obliged by pressing play on the tape machine. I made my way to the back of the room.

Willy sat motionless in front of the speakers. I was directly behind him at the couch, but when you’ve been working at a studio for longer than a day, you figure out that you can watch the expressions of people at the console from the reflection in the glass that separates the room from the Womb. I have a setting on the automatic programmed dimmer selector that allows me the maximum amount of reflection, and I often hit it just before I play someone something.

I could tell by the wide-eyed expression on Willy’s face, that he was appalled by the wretched percussion parts, although he had to bite his tongue because Dumb Ass was in the room. Slowly, Willy leaned into the console and started muting percussion parts and listening to each part individually with the track. I could see him trying to figure out what the hell was going on with these percussion parts. Finally, when the song ended, Willy stopped the tape and pronounced his feelings on the subject of Dumb Ass’ percussion parts. He did so with supreme clarity and absolute conviction, holding back nothing.

“Uh . . .” he said.

I decided it might be best if I jump in as Willy was in the midst of a very awkward pause. “Perhaps it’s a bit much,” I chimed in.

“Yes, perhaps,” Willy echoed as he snapped his head to look at me and seemed relieved that I had managed to bail him out.

“Well, I guess we could mute the wood block,” Dumb Ass replied deep in thought, “but that’s a mix thing, right?” he continued.

“Indeed,” I said with conviction, doing everything in my power to hold back my laughter at the incredulous look on Willy’s face.

Willy explained to Dumb Ass that he needed to live with the percussion parts for a moment and pretended that he needed to run an errand and for which he needed my expertise. Fortunately, Dumb Ass didn’t question this, or worse yet, offer to tag along, so Willy’s white lie didn’t have to blossom into a tale that only Lucille Ball could rival. As we got into Willy’s car, I knew exactly what the errand was that we were going to run. I’m not quite sure how I knew. I suppose sometimes you just get a sense for these sorts of things.

“Sushi time!” I exclaimed. And I was right!

Once Willy realized that I knew how bad the percussion parts were, he went through a variety of stages. First, he expressed relief that I wasn’t the architect of such atrocities, then horror that Dumb Ass was. Then after we had a couple of beers and some sushi, he couldn’t stop laughing about it. Of course, my singing the song and dancing like a retard playing timbales wasn’t helping matters.

I offered my consultation to Willy, expressing that I thought we should play the percussion for the rest of the band tomorrow, so they could be the ones to tell him it sucks ass. Then I suggested that we record guitars on the other song that Willy had approved the drum edits for. He agreed, and that’s what we did.

I felt fortunate, as Johnny-on-the-Spot wasn’t at the studio when we returned. Apparently, he came and split when he heard we were gone. We were actually able to rip through guitars on another song with Yore. Willy decided to stick around tonight and run the guitar overdub session rather than exit stage left. He even ran the controls, as I lay in the back of the room on the couch occasionally shouting out orders like I was the producer and he was the engineer. As I did so, I did what any good producer would do.

I rolled a fatty.

Mixerman

Week 4 Page 4:
The Daily Adventures of Mixerman
(The saga continues...)

Day 19: A Man, A Plan, A Canal, Panama
Posted: August 23, 1:42 a.m.

I’ll never forget the look on Paulie Yore’s face as he stood in front of the console listening to the playback of yesterday’s “Percussion Solo over a Production” debacle. I wasn’t quite sure whether Yore was going to throw up, pass out, cry, or start laughing hysterically, but he could have easily made the transition to any one of those reactions. Yore decided to stop the tape around the time the maracas began their incessant chattering. He turned in a slow methodical fashion like a mannequin on a turnstile, and he gazed at me with absolute marvel in his eyes. Then he became animated again.

“Is this a joke?” he asked me as he held out his hands like one would to carry a folded blanket.

“I take it you don’t like it,” I replied sarcastically.

Dumb Ass couldn’t have picked a more perfect moment to enter the room were his goal to get chewed out by someone who despised him.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Yore asked as he turned his attention toward Dumb Ass.

“What’d I do?” Dumb Ass replied.

“These percussion parts suck!” Yore yelled in amazement. “Who the fuck puts a timbale on a shuffle?” he continued.

I was wondering that myself, but then, the answer stood before me.

“I think he’s planning on muting the wood block,” I said without thinking. I was sorry the moment I said it. Fortunately for me, there was no backlash for my poorly timed smart-ass remark, as they both chose to ignore me. Dumb Ass and Paulie Yore proceeded to get into it, and I exited stage left.

I was hanging out on the patio eating a chocolate muffin when Willy arrived. Not wanting Willy to walk in on the scene unprepared, I attempted to tell him mid-chew that Yore had heard the percussion parts. Willy smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand so hard that he left a red mark. He leaned back as if he were in excruciating pain that I had gathered was caused by the excessive force of his smack. Then I realized that Willy’s expression of pain wasn’t as a result of the smack, but rather from the ramifications of a missed detail.

“I totally forgot to warn Yore,” he whined, still wincing.

I told Willy he’d better get a fatty and get in there quick, because Yore was tearing Dumb Ass a new asshole, and I didn’t think Dumb Ass was going to take it anymore. With that, I now knew just what to say to Willy were we ever to participate in an inter-studio relay race. Willy bolted to the control room, and I, not wishing to miss anything, followed close behind.

When we got back to the control room, Yore was on his way out, and without a word, he split. Dumb Ass was bright red in the face and sitting on the couch in silence with his arms crossed and his legs crossed.

Willy, Dumb Ass, and I sat in the room in silence for approximately five minutes. Finally, I got up to get a glass of water, and on my way out of the room, I was handed a message slip by the runner. It was from Jeramiah Weasel, and the note was for Willy. It said:

To: Willy Show
From: Jeramiah Weasel

Please Call—Urgent.

I abandoned my water run and dispensed the slip to Willy, who glanced at it briefly, crumpled it up, and threw it toward the trash can. He missed. Dumb Ass split without saying a word. Since nobody was in the room, I took that opportunity to ask Willy about Jeramiah’s pending visit.

“Will Jeramiah be coming over soon?” I asked.

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” replied Willy curtly.

I decided to leave it at that, as Willy didn’t seem to be in the mood to discuss it.

After Dumb Ass had calmed down and re-entered the room, Willy had a heart-to-heart with him about the percussion. Willy selected his wording carefully, telling Dumb Ass that the timbales brought the song to a place that he wasn’t envisioning. Willy put in the obligatory stroking by telling Dumb Ass that the percussion parts were very creative and interesting, but that the record label was looking for something a little more “straight ahead.” He told Cotton that rock radio might not play a song that had timbales on it, and that that radio airplay was a great concern of the label. It was a great speech, and Dumb Ass seemed to be buying it.

“Well, what do you envision on this song?” asked Dumb Ass.

“At the moment, nothing,” Willy replied bluntly.

Dumb Ass questioned Willy for a while longer like a child asking why he couldn’t have a dog, and then seeming somewhat dejected, he split.

Great! There was nobody from the band at our session.

Fingaz moseyed on through the control room with the hood up on his parka, as if he had just entered the Hungarian Farmers Club from a dog-sled race in Barrow, Alaska. His parka smelled a little like pee to me (human not dog), but I didn’t say anything to him about it. Willy and I followed Fingaz to his shitter and listened to the edited takes. Willy approved one and gave Fingaz some changes on the other two, and since I had some time, I made a slave of the song that Willy had approved.

By evening, Johnny had arrived, warmed up, and was ready to sing. Willy was controlling the tape deck, so I lay in my favorite spot—the couch in the back of the room. The back of the room is great, because it acts as a bass trap due to the wall. When you lay there listening to music, it’s really bass heavy and relaxing—hence the term bass trap. Sometimes, if everything is going smoothly in a session, or if the producer wants to run the deck, I like to go to sleep back there. So that’s what I did.

I was awakened from a dream state, in which I was in a hot air balloon with Dumb Ass and his set of timbales. Dumb Ass was freaking out because he had a fear of heights. I was marveling at the fact that someone with a fear of heights would actually get INTO a hot air balloon, when Dumb Ass began repeating, “It’s too fucking high,” “It’s too fucking high,” and then I woke up. It was actually Willy saying, “It’s too fucking high,” and that had somehow permeated my dream. After a moment, I finally understood what was going on. The song was in a key too high for Johnny to sing.

This sort of problem happens all the time, certainly more often than it should. Singers can get very stubborn about what key they sing a song in. There is definitely some validity to their stubbornness, as changing the key of a song can drastically alter the feeling of a song. Unfortunately, if one can’t sing the song in the key chosen, then where the recording process is concerned, that point becomes moot. As it turned out, Johnny McMyway didn’t want to lower the key of the song, because he felt the song sounded better at the top of his range. That may be, but not today it didn’t.

“I TOLD him this song was too high,” Willy vented out of earshot from Johnny who was still by the mic in the tracking room. Willy now had his face in his hands with his elbows on the console, clearly dejected by this revelation.

That statement told me that this topic had been discussed before. Johnny wasn’t willing to take Willy’s suggestion to lower the key. Usually, if you get into the studio and the singer can’t hit the notes, it’s not because he can NEVER hit those notes, but rather because he sometimes CAN hit the notes. That causes the singer to be overconfident and misjudge what his true range is. A singer's true range is what he can ALWAYS sing. Even if you happen to get the singer on a day where he can just about make the notes, many times, the singer ends up sacrificing a good performance as a result of the brainpower being allocated towards the hitting of notes. When it is finally discovered that a song is too high for the singer, there are several options.

The key can be lowered using a function called vari-speed on the tape deck, which allows me to speed up or slow down the rate in which the deck plays the tape. If you slow down a tape with recorded music, the pitch goes down. The problem with this is, if you end up slowing the tape down too much, the quality of the voice can degrade upon play-back at normal speed, causing the singer to sound like The Chipmunks. Another disadvantage to this method is that the tempo of the song is slowed down during the performance, and sometimes that can make the song just as difficult for the singer to sing. In that case, you are merely trading one problem for another, which rarely helps the cause. If slowing down the tape doesn’t work, then re-tracking the harmonic instruments in the new key must be considered.

The harmonic instruments like guitar and bass and keyboards (if applicable) can be re-tracked, so long as the drums work in the new key. I’d say 99 times out of 100 the drums work fine, so long as there is no bleed from the other instruments. Let me repeat that last sentence. So long as there is no bleed from the other instruments.

If re-tracking isn't an option, the singer can try again another day, preferably on a day that he can hit the notes relatively easily. OR Willy could have him sing several takes of another song to really try to loosen up the vocal chords and then attempt the song that’s too high again.

If our goal was to continue recording, it seems our only viable option was to slow down the tape, and that’s just what we did. But Johnny was getting frustrated and couldn’t sing the song at the tempo. So, Willy went into the lounge and grabbed Yore’s bottle of Makers Mark whisky. I guess Willy figured he might get a take if Johnny got liquored up.

Since Johnny Rhythm didn’t like singing to the song slowed down, we put the song back to its original tempo and pitch. Johnny pounded two full shots of Makers Mark straight away and sang down a take. Between each of the first three takes, Johnny took another shot of whisky, which made five shots in less than half an hour. I’m not sure that is what Willy had in mind, because not only was Johnny getting blasted, he still wasn’t hitting the high notes, and he was beginning to slur his speech even in song. After the fourth take, Johnny pounded another shot and promptly pronounced that he needed to puke, so I quickly escorted him to Fingaz’ bathroom, where he commenced a short prayer to the porcelain God. Fingaz crossed his arms over his chest and turned toward me.

“Oh, c’mon, Yo!” he exclaimed “Dat shit gonna smell!!” he continued as he reached to cover his nose with his shirt. And it did smell.

Johnny Lush went to sleep it off on the couch, and Willy listened to the vocal takes. Before I went home, Willy decided that we would need to re-lay bass and guitars on this song, as the song was without question in too high a key. I pointed out to Willy that the whole band played in the same room, and with the drum bleed, changing the key of the song wasn’t really an option. Willy made the only decision he could under the circumstances. We were to re-track the song in its entirety tomorrow.

I must be getting used to the idea of taking two steps back for every one step we take forward, because no matter how great today’s setbacks may have been, I could take great solace in the fact that we had accomplished what I had hoped for more than anything else.

We had a plan.

Mixerman

Week 4 Page 4:
The Daily Adventures of Mixerman
(The saga continues...)

Week 4 Page 5:
The Daily Adventures of Mixerman
(The saga continues...)

Day 20: Marv Ellis
Posted: August 23, 11:16 p.m.

Johnny Swerve was arrested for driving under the influence last night. Apparently, no one considered the fact that when Johnny woke up, he might drive home. But that’s exactly what happened. Johnny had spent the night in a cell with a blood alcohol level of 0.1, which is two points over the limit in California. DUI is a serious offense anywhere, but in L.A., the penalties are phenomenally stiff. This could easily cost him between $5,000-$10,000 when all is said and done. Willy was markedly distressed at this news, and you could tell he felt bad. I suspect Willy's going to be helping Johnny out with the costs of that bad play.

As far as recording goes, there was nothing unusual about today. Willy wanted to record with the instruments isolated again, so we moved the amps into the iso booths once again, and the band played with headphones. Lance and I readjusted the drums back to the set-up that we used for “Song in Wrong Key.” We referred to Lance’s notes, which were beginning to look like a calculus lesson with his three-dimensional drawings and measurements of mic positions in relation to the drums. Dumb Ass continued to play without a clik. With preparations complete we re-tracked “Song in Wrong Key.”

Fingaz, who had completed all of his work, was preparing for a weekend trip to Vegas by reading a self-help Black Jack handbook. He was attempting to memorize when to hit, split, and double down, but he must not have had a very good memory, because I saw him split 5s, what an idiot. I don't expect he'll be counting through five decks of cards anytime soon.

We spent until just before evening recording, and then Willy called a dinner break. The band eats atrociously, and neither Willy nor I can ever eat with them, as we don’t like eating fast food on a daily basis. Conversely, the entire band wouldn’t be caught dead eating raw fish, and I’m quite sure that I’ve never seen any of them actually eat a salad.

Willy perused the menu book and then dramatically slammed it shut with a WHACK. Willy looked at me, and by the grin on his face, along with the up-and-down motion of his eyebrows, I understood the meaning of this action.

It was sushi time!

I suppose the others had gone to KFC or something unappealing like that, while Willy and I took off for our sushi dinner, which was, without a doubt, the most enlightening sushi dinner I’ve ever had.

On the way to the sushi restaurant, Willy got a call in his car. Willy answered the call on speaker phone, holding his index finger sideways to his lips as he did so. On the other end was Marv Ellis, the president of the label, and the person who agreed to pay Bitch Slap two million dollars to not make a record for two years. Willy immediately asked Marv if he’d eaten, and before I knew it, we were on our way to meet Marv Ellis for sushi.

I’ve met plenty of record label presidents, although I’d never met Marv. I’d only known him by reputation. Record company presidents come up from all aspects of the business. I’ve seen Bean Counter Presidents, Promotion Department Presidents, A&R Department Presidents, MBA Presidents, Street Presidents, Gangster Presidents, and the newest fad, Producer Presidents. The side of the business that a president comes from often determines how he will run the label.

When a new president takes over a major label, speculation runs rampant about whether he’s qualified to be the president of a corporation. The record industry doomsayers, who often run amok on the industry’s internet bulletin board called The Velvet Rope, usually hypothesize that a new president doesn’t know how to run a business, or doesn’t know music, or any one of a multitude of shortcomings that would make being a president a very temporary position. I suppose the speculation is usually correct, because other than a few standbys, most record company presidents are EXACTLY that. Temporary.

Personally, I couldn’t care less about all of that. It’s not like the president has any kind of power over what his employees do, because he doesn’t. Many, many times, I have seen a president’s signing get the cold shoulder by the A&R department or the marketing department, or worst of all, the radio department. The employees don’t give a shit what the president wants. The employees in power positions do what THEY want. Sure, they provide plenty of lip service for the president, but when push comes to shove, one makes a name for himself in this business by discovering a hit act and then following it up with another. It’s referred to as the Golden Touch, and if you are perceived to have the Touch, you will be the big winner in this business. In reality, the president is actually competing with many of his employees. The employees will undercut the president with their own agenda and then report back to him as if they gave it the old college try.

I’m sure that some presidents are able to thwart these sorts of attempts. I only know what I see, and I’m certainly not privy to the large majority of the inner workings of every major label. It’s not my area of expertise. Perhaps it was different for Marv Ellis. If anyone commands respect, I’m sure Marv does. Perhaps he is immune to these sorts of political back-stabbings that often occur within labels.

When we arrived at the sushi bar, Marv had not arrived yet, but there were three places reserved at the sushi bar, which was otherwise full. I have never seen spots reserved at a sushi bar. In a town of world-famous movie stars, record executives are generally considered small-time. I had to assume that Marv ate here on a daily basis to get such treatment. Either that or we lucked out. Judging by the pissed-off couple in the corner waiting for the bar, my guess would be against that of luck.

Willy and I didn’t have to wait long, as Marv arrived only a minute behind us. He was an average-height guy, with an average build. He wore clothes that looked pretty casual but probably cost a fortune. A pair of jeans in this town can cost more than most Americans’ suits, and I was pretty sure that this was the case here. We all sat down, and Marv told us not to bother ordering, because his chef would supply us with everything we needed. And the chef did, too. This place rocked!

The dinner was amazing, and Marv Ellis was very personable. He was sharing war stories with us about how he got to his position, as we plowed through many small vials of very expensive cold saki. Marv wanted to know MY story, so I told him how I started out and the bullet points of my career. As the conversation progressed, the three of us got into philosophies of making records, and we spoke about the business and the future of the record industry.

Willy and Marv were obviously pretty buddy-buddy. It didn’t take me long to realize that this was why Willy didn’t give a shit about Jeramiah. This is the president's project, and Jeramiah is basically as I stated earlier—just a minion with a very strong opinion.

As we were finishing our dinner, Marv Ellis finally asked what I was waiting the whole night for him to ask. Were it me, this would have been my FIRST question of the evening. But this guy went through a whole dinner before even mentioning it.

“So how’s the project going, Willy?” Marv asked.

“It’s going a little slower than I expected,” Willy conceded “I’m having problems because the drummer’s not very good, and the band’s resisting outside help. I’ve got a drummer lined up for next month,” Willy continued, as I almost choked on my orange, which is what one typically eats for dessert at a Sushi restaurant.

“Look, Willy. I don’t care what you have to do. This band is my top priority. As far as I’m concerned, you have a blank check. If you need a year, then take a year. I don’t give a fucking shit. Just bring me a record I can sell. OK?”

The two hugged, and as Marv Ellis turned to shake my hand, he looked at Willy again.

“I have a feeling this guy is going to add a lot to this project. Make sure he stays on,” Marv said to Willy as he hit me on the side of my upper arm and smiled. Then he got into his car that was waiting with the valet, and he drove off.

I stood there flabbergasted. Was this like some sort of joke? Was there a hidden camera?

I’ve heard of situations like this with virtually unlimited budgets. There’s one very famous rock band from the early nineties that’s been recording an album for the past few years with several different producers. But THAT is an established band. Bitch Slap is a bunch of miserable nobodies that were forced to write songs for two years.

I followed Willy like a zombie to his car, and he drove me back to the studio. He told me not to mention anything about the drummer, as if I needed to be told that! As he was filling me in on the importance of discretion, which I found nothing short of ironic given this online accounting of my days, the phone rang in Willy’s car again, and he answered it on speaker. It was Marv, who spoke without introduction.

“Willy, do me a favor will ya? Let Jeramiah come by the sessions. He’s driving me fucking crazy.”

Willy agreed to let Jeramiah visit. When we arrived at the studio again, the band had split, and Willy called it a night.

I drove home carefully, wanting to avoid the possibility of a DUI myself. As I drove, my mind was racing with all the possibilities. Could I be on this project for a year? It’s unfathomable to me, the possibility of working with this asshole band for a year. Then I would convince myself that it won’t ACTUALLY take a year. Marv was merely assuring Willy that he didn’t have to worry about a budget—not for Willy to take a year to make an album. I was thinking about the opportunity (or curse) of recording a band with an unlimited budget. It’s a well-known principle that you always spend up to your budget. So, if there is no budget, what do you spend? Will we start recording guitar chords one string at a time? Will we record the same album three times?

Sure, the loot is good, but a year of 12-hour days? I usually work a few months and take a month off. I would have no time off. I would be out of commission for mixing, which pays considerably more than tracking. Were I to somehow get myself out of this gig, I could actually work less and make more money. But that’s always a gamble, because in this business, there are no guarantees. I could hit a dry spell and be kicking myself for not having kept the Bitch Slap gig. Of course, being out of commission by virtue of being stuck on a project for an entire year (assuming it went that long) is also incredibly risky. All of my current clients will have found new engineers to work with. It could become very difficult to get work after being on a project for that long.

Then my thoughts turned to the Dumb Ass’ situation. We’ve been recording him for weeks. Now, I come to find out that Willy has another drummer scheduled to come in and lay down tracks on this album? How long has that plan been in effect? Has Willy known since day one, and so we’ve been doing nothing but biding time?

My head was swimming and still is swimming with all of these thoughts. I’ve got an offer to do another record right after the AES (Audio Engineering Society) convention in October. Do I turn that down? I’ll have to make a decision on that by early next week.

Then there was that dinner. I mean, I consider myself a swell guy and everything, but there was something strange about that dinner. What about “the question?” This is the most important project on Marv’s plate, and he saves asking how the project is going for last? The stream of questions and concerns running through my head are relentless and endless.

Not that any of this really matters right now. At this particular juncture, there’s really only one thing that I can do that has even a chance of making any difference at all.

Crash.

Mixerman

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