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WELCOME TO THE DAILY ADVENTURES OF MIXERMAN:
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.

Day 21: Film At 11
Posted: August 27, 1:19 a.m. — Week 5

My first thought of the day, after realizing that I was going to have to go to another Bitch Slap session, was WHY am I going to another Bitch Slap session today? I was trying to explain to myself, precisely, for what purpose we would be recording today. It has now been established (to me anyway) that we would not be keeping any of Cotton’s drums. Both Willy and I know that a new, yet to be named, drummer would be laying down these drum tracks. Did Willy think that we were going to record the music and then lay the drums to the preexisting music? I’ve done that before, and in my experience that methodology is, at best, a hit-or-miss proposition, so long as there’s a clik. In THIS case there was no clik, and to lay down a decent drum performance over an existing track with no clik is exceptionally difficult to do well.

Perhaps our purpose in recording today was in order to further propagate the myth that Dumb Ass was actually being given a chance to prove himself before he was shit-canned. Perhaps it was to give Willy enough ammunition to convince the band that Dumb Ass sucked ass. I looked at the situation from every angle and nothing made sense to me. Logically speaking, there was absolutely no reason for me to be at a Bitch Slap session today. But logic has nothing to do with a Bitch Slap session, so I certainly couldn’t rely on that. Being a willing participant in the madness, I went to my session.

When I arrived at the studio, two huge plain white trucks and a generator were crowding the lot. This configuration of vehicles could only mean one thing.

“They must be filming in the other room,” I said to myself out loud. Then I saw what appeared to be a temporary makeshift valet station, so I pulled up to it and handed my car keys over to a small Latino man in a red coat. He could have easily been a con man, preying on people in a hurry, but I gave him my keys just the same.

From the generator came a bundle of cables that were now holding ajar the main entrance to the building. I figured the heavy lines would be heading toward the other room in the facility, but they weren’t. The cables ran down the hall towards the Bitch Slap session. All I could think to myself was, “Please don’t let this be for my session, please don’t let this be for my session.” Of COURSE this wasn’t for my session! I considered for a moment that this might be some sort of news-related event. Perhaps a recurring daydream of mine, in which Yore chokes the shit out of Dumb Ass, actually happened. But the trucks had no television affiliate markings, and there were no police or ambulances, so that couldn’t be it.

I was passed by a burly fellow carrying camera tracks towards the Womb. Determined to put an end to the speculation, I attempted to stop the man.

“What are you guys filming?” I asked.

“Fuck if I know,” the burly man responded. “I stopped keeping track years ago,” he continued as he kept walking.

I accelerated my little mantra, as if I were the little engine that could. “Please don’t let this be for my session, please don’t let this be for my session.”

I followed the cable straight into the Womb, which was now infested with strangers setting up cameras, lights, cables, and tracks. The tracks and the cabling ran right through the control room through a double door airlock that just days ago provided safe haven and isolation from very loud drums and guitars.

MOTHER FUCKER!!!!!

I searched through the many strangers now infesting both the Womb and the room, in the hopes of finding Lance, but he was nowhere to be found. I picked up the phone and called the front desk.

“Find. Lance. Now!” I said, as if I were saying three distinct sentences.

“OK,” the voice quivered.

Then I decided I’d better go into the room and make sure my mics weren’t being touched. As I entered, I realized that I was being followed by a tall, skinny dude with pants that were entirely too slim in the pant leg to be fashionable, carrying a camera on his shoulders.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked, imagining that I must have looked like some dude that got busted by 60 Minutes. The guy didn’t respond, he just kept the camera focused on me. I kept on walking, and the skinny camera dude was following me.

OK, fine.

“Who’s in charge?” I asked a guy who was setting up the tracks to weave through the apartments we had set up in the room.

“Fuck if I know?” the guy responded, and upon closer look, it was my new burly acquaintance that I had met moments earlier in the hall. I felt like I was in a bad cartoon. Then Dumb Ass walked in, and I REALLY felt like I was in a bad cartoon.

“You wouldn’t happen to know what the fuck is going on here, would you?” I asked Dumb Ass, abandoning the usual exchange of niceties that occur before such statements.

“I think they’re going to film the session,” Dumb Ass replied, in his usual insightful manner. To which I raised my hands in disgust, as that was exactly the answer I SHOULD have expected from Dumb Ass. So I responded in song.

“YES! But WHAT are they filming, dear Henry, dear Henry, but WHAT are they filming, dear Henry but WHAT?!” I sang to a melody that I remember from decades ago in a skit on Sesame Street.

I was without a doubt becoming unglued where Dumb Ass was concerned. I was beginning to behave like Lieutenant Dreyfus who was literally driven mad by Inspector Clouseau in one of the Pink Panther sequels.

“My name’s not Henry,” replied Dumb Ass, who was now reaching new heights of stupidity.

As I turned to walk out of the room, I almost hit my face on the camera that the skinny dude was carrying. I stood there staring at him with my arms crossed and a look that could kill. Then, I saw the formation of a tiny little smirk on his face.

I considered my options. I could threaten him bodily harm, but if he called my bluff, I’d be loath to actually do anything to him, as he would have actual proof that I attacked him. I considered the old Pied Piper trick of luring him outside and then, when his guard was down, running back in, closing the door and locking it. But that would only serve as a temporary fix, as people were constantly coming and going. As I pondered my options, through the control room window I saw Fingaz walking through to his shitter. In my mind I could smell the urine that I had sprayed on his parka just days before. I even think I could see the little stain from my position some 40 feet away.

“If you don’t turn off the camera and get away from me, I’m going to pee on your shoes, and if you don’t believe that I will, just ask the guy with the pee-stained parka in there,” I said pointing towards the control room and looking the skinny dude straight in the camera with an expression that would have easily won me a large pot in the World Series of Poker.

Wisely, he decided to put the camera down, and FINALLY, I spotted Lance in the control room, so I went there.

“What the fuck is going on, and who’s in charge?” I asked Lance who was looking mildly uncomfortable as he looked past me in an odd sort of way.

A familiar voice came from behind me. “That would be me,” the voice said.

NO!

It was Jeramiah! I have met Jeramiah Weasel many times before, so I knew his voice. As I turned to face him, I couldn’t help but think to myself that he was not a particularly handsome fellow. He stood there sipping his Starbucks Venti double Soy Mocha Latte, with his supposedly stylish greasy hair, chicken pox scars, and a schnoz I could park a car in. Upon his nose he balanced a pair of lime-green tinted sunglasses, which he wore regardless of the fact that he was inside. He wore blue jeans that were most likely purchased at Fred Siegels, (one of the more expensive places to purchase blue jeans) and a Dixie Beer T-shirt, which I could only assume was some sort of collector’s item.

“Hello, Jeramiah,” I said, taken aback that he was here. Then I went to shake his hand, not the least bit embarrassed by what he had overheard me say, as it was a perfectly legitimate question.

I explained to Jeramiah that no one had informed me of the film shoot, that I couldn’t find anyone in the film crew that knew what the hell was going on, and that there were some definite problems with the way things have been set up. I went into detail about the problems with tracks going through isolation doors, and bright lights making the tracking room so hot that the air conditioning wouldn’t be able to keep up, and the need to threaten camera men that wouldn’t get out of my face. Jeramiah listened to every word without interrupting. Of course, much of it went in one ear and out the other.

“Well, you guys are just going to have to work around it,” Jeramiah said peering over his sunglasses with no empathy for my situation whatsoever.

“I see,” I said, attempting to restrain myself. “Do you know how long they’ll be here?” I asked as politely as one can after being snubbed so blatantly.

“As long as it takes,” replied Jeramiah.

Great! Having Jeramiah on this session was going to be about as welcome as a case of the clap. I excused myself for my chocolate muffin of the day, but as I made my way down the hall, I ran into Willy who was carrying two muffins, one in each hand. He was looking down at the cables and following them much like I had when I first arrived today. Willy spotted me and handed over one of the muffins without saying a word as he continued following the cables, until he arrived at the Womb. Jeramiah stood in the exact spot I had left him, still sipping his Latte and peering over his eyeglasses.

Willy looked at Jeramiah and then looked at the tracks that ran through the isolation doors which once allowed us to monitor instruments through speakers, rather than through open doors. This made about as much sense as opening all the windows in the middle of winter and cranking up the furnace. Willy entered the Womb stepping over the tracks and sat down, still not saying a word as he pulled out a fatty. Once seated, Willy sparked up the fatty as he dragged upon it, and swiveled his chair so as to look squarely at Jeramiah.

“Filming, are we?” Willy said.

The verbal thrashing and name-calling that transpired after this initial question was too personal and possibly too salty even for this diary. Willy, suffice it to say, was not ecstatic about the film crew being there and displayed considerably less elation at Jeramiah’s presence. I’ve never seen a producer tear an A&R rep a new asshole as readily as Willy did Jeramiah. But given Willy’s relationship with Marv Ellis, and given that Jeramiah “is the most miserable shit to ever walk the planet” (according to Willy) and was “nothing short of a figurehead” where Bitch Slap was concerned, it was certainly understandable.

Willy attempted to call Marv’s office, but apparently Marv would be in Europe for the next two weeks and unavailable other than for absolute emergencies. I suppose Marv’s secretary felt this situation didn’t qualify.

Even with the reaming, Jeramiah was unfazed. He had no intention of removing the crew, and I’m not sure if Willy had any authority to actually remove the crew himself. So now it was merely a case of negotiation.

Fortunately, Willy did successfully convince Jeramiah that the cables and tracks couldn’t go through our isolation doors, and that the lights could only be turned on when they were actually filming. The biggest point of contention in our negotiations was having the cameras in the control room. I didn’t want cameras in the Womb for any reason. But Jeramiah was adamant.

Apparently, Jeramiah had hired a director and film crew to make a documentary of the Bitch Slap sessions. Jeramiah went on and on about the importance of “capturing what goes on in the trenches” for his documentary. To which I could only think to myself document what?—does he really think that anyone wants a documentary about a band that’s been in the studio for 26 days and hasn’t gotten shit done?

Ahem.

We didn’t do any recording today, as the film crew was in need of its own set-up day. They still hadn’t cleared the iso doors by the time I left (which was early), but they promised they’d have them unobstructed by tomorrow. I’m not sure we ever came to an agreement regarding filming inside the Womb, and tomorrow, we were to start recording each song with a film crew present at all times—the ramifications of which did not escape me. For every conversation, every slipped fart, every insult cast out of range of its intended mark would be captured on film.

That gig in October is starting to look better and better.

Mixerman

Day 22: Show Time
Posted: August 28, 2:18 a.m.

Since there was no way around the fact that I was going to be on film, I decided I should at the very least dress for the occasion. I considered a variety of different looks, including the slovenly engineer complete with stained and holey concert T-shirt, stained jeans that were too big in the rear much like plumbers enjoy wearing, and bright red canvas Keds sneakers. While I found the boldness of such an outfit inviting, I was concerned that people might misconstrue the intended satire of my garb.

Another concept was the well-dressed, suave, white-collar stylized engineer—complete with mint-condition Levis Red Tag Jeans, my best Donna Karen Sports Jacket over a Wilkes Rodriguez button-down shirt, finished with a polished black leather Hugo Boss belt and slip-on leather shoes from Italy that I fear might actually be from Ireland. Still, I liked the shoes. While this outfit was also appealing, I was afraid that Johnny might faint at the sight of my vintage jeans, or worse yet, try to steal them somehow. I also considered that my shoes might become a point of discussion causing great embarrassment, so I abandoned that ensemble. After debating for some time the exact look that would be best for appearing in a film, I settled on something familiar.

I decided to wear a God-awful Hawaiian button-down shirt for my film debut, as that is what Ed Cherney wore for his cameo on the Bette Midler Show. I know, because I watched it. After all, I figured that was just the way engineers dressed for this sort of occasion. Who was I to argue with success? Of course, the Bette Midler Show didn’t last long, but I really don’t think that had anything whatsoever to do with Ed’s shirt.

It seems I was the only person treating this filming as a farce, but I wasn’t the only person to select my look carefully. Dumb Ass was looking VERY cliché, wearing shorts and no shirt. Harmon Neenot was the sharp-dressed man with a very nice pair of black dress pants, black leather shoes, and a black dress shirt unbuttoned and untucked over a blood-red T-shirt. Paulie Yore wore a Nirvana concert T-shirt and a pair of stone-washed jeans that I suspect he wore just to piss off Johnny, who has proven himself to be nothing more than a jeans snob.

Johnny was dressed in circa 1955, Levis 501 jeans, which he claimed were not reissues, but the original jeans recently discovered in a large time capsule of a warehouse. His jeans were perfectly pressed without a crease down the leg, never washed, and never shrunk. If he even stood next to a glass of water, he’d get nervous. On his torso he wore what was a modern modification on the short-sleeved polo shirt. The shirt was made out of polyester and viscose (I checked, and, no, I have no clue what viscose is) and is designed to be worn two sizes too small. Johnny Buff suddenly looked as though he had large muscles with this shirt on, which I assumed was the intended result.

For all I know, Willy was wearing a silk robe, because he didn’t even show up today. Perhaps he’s boycotting the session. I couldn’t say I blame him—I considered doing the same.

Seeing as the film crew was in full effect, the lights were blazing, and I was being followed by men with cameras, recording my every deliberate move, I decided to play up to the part.

When I arrived at the studio, the band had already arrived. I had never seen them so pumped up to record. Dumb Ass wanted to start with a particular song and had actually selected the drums and everything. I was floored as he was usually asking ME to select his drums for him. Yore had brought in a guitar tech to change out his strings and intonate the guitars. Johnny was warming up, as if we were actually going to keep vocals that had excessive amounts of drum bleed on them. Harmon Neenot was warming up by playing classic Yes bass lines from the album Fragile. Chris Squire . . . he was not.

When I walked into the room, Lance started laughing at my shirt, but fuck him, this was the shirt that engineers wore on film shoots! Although, I must admit, the humor in that was only apparent to those who saw that particular episode of the Bette Midler Show. Considering the show was cancelled, and considering I felt like an idiot in a Hawaiian shirt, I decided to consider another look for tomorrow.

Figuring that Willy would make an appearance sooner or later, and not wanting to appear as if we sit around all day and get nothing accomplished, I decided to get the ball rolling. Dumb Ass was in the room and on the throne.

“KIK,” I yelled into the talkback with authority and zeal. I was going to play the part of an engineer who could quickly fire through every instrument, further propagating the common myth that engineering is done in the control room.

“What?” Dumb Ass replied.

So I smiled for the camera.

“KIK!” I repeated through the talkback, while smiling for the camera.

“What about it?” Dumb Ass yelled out.

He was ruining my little scene.

“Play the KIK,” I said patiently.

“What for?” Dumb Ass replied.

I swear to God, this guy could fuck up a wet dream. My scene in which I get drum sounds in less than three minutes flat, like some Greek God-like engineer, came to a screeching halt. I was looking to perpetuate the image that this was a well-run session, and he was intent on keeping it real. And real is what the cameramen captured as I went around the same stupid-ass conversation I always have with Dumb Ass where getting drum sounds was concerned—all caught on digital film for the world to see one day. With that thought, I was beginning to regret my decision to wear a Hawaiian shirt, regardless of the precedent that had been set before me.

Once I finally assimilated Dumb Ass to the groundbreaking concept of checking drum sounds before making takes, I was able to proceed with that process and thereby temporarily leave behind the awkwardness and self-consciousness that had been plaguing me. After getting sounds for the whole band, I had them make a take.

For a band that typically sucked ass, they were displaying an actual ability to PLAY. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were playing close to—dare I say it—great. Dumb Ass was finally laying into the drums with some authority, and he wasn’t forgetting his cues. A few times I caught him twirling his sticks and even saw him throw a stick into the air once. Of course, he dropped it. Harmon was grooving like mad in his duds. Paulie Yore was doing windmills and goofing on Pete Townsend’s two-legged hop move. He was laughing hysterically, as if Pete Townsend were somehow “cheese” (as Yore puts it). To date, I can’t really recall ever having seen Yore laugh. For that matter, I can’t recall ever meeting anyone that thought Pete Townsend was cheese.

As the band was making takes, I sat at the console and bopped my head around, as if I were thoroughly enjoying the playing. Occasionally, I’d get up and dance around a little, Lance would dance through my little area between the console and the counter, pretending to write down notes and enjoy himself. Even Fingaz was getting into the act, wearing his parka, and dancing all hip-hop to rock tunes. At one point he disconnected the Radar controller, brought it into the control room. He began frantically hitting buttons, pretending to be editing and yelling like a mo-fo—“Aw shit! That’s it baby! Now we got dat bad boy down, Wiggah!”

Between takes, I would talk to the band, telling them things like, “You’re on fire!” and giving them advice like, “Make it a bit more steamy in the Bridge!” and “The last chorus is a bit flat, sharpen it up!” I even threw in the obligatory, “It needs to be more green! Give me green!” The band looked at me strangely and said nothing. I was starting to regret my miserable little satire caught on film, and I now realize that this was a mistake. As much as I thought it would be funny for me to PLAY the caricature of an engineer on a rock session, I had finally realized that I already WAS that caricature of an engineer on a rock session, and so my act was similar to feeding a pig, pig. Not a good idea.

Since I could no longer enjoy myself with my new revelation that my life had been reduced to nothing short of trite, I decided to confess to Fingaz on camera that I might have gotten a little bit of pee on his parka. To add insult to injury, I explained to him that he was starting to smell a bit like urine and that it was becoming a bit of a problem. He just stared at me with a look that could kill, and I was doing everything in my power not to laugh.

“Aw man, why you be tellin’ me this now?” he blurted.

Fingaz picked up his Radar and took it to the shitter. I followed him and begged for forgiveness, as I realized that my goofing around had gone overboard. After all, I’m only human, I make mistakes just like anyone and feel badly about them afterwards. I even offered a public apology to Fingaz on camera for the whole world to hear.

“I want everyone to know that I did not actually pee on Fingaz’ Parka. A parka with pee on it subjected to 95-degree weather would start to stink like hell. I am here to tell you that his parka smells wonderful, and I will prove it to you now,” I said to the camera in my staged apology. Then I took a deep breath from his parka and fell to the ground, as if I had passed out from the smell. For the first time since his arrival, I had discovered humor that even Fingaz could relate to, as he started laughing at my slapstick antics.

“You a freak, Yo,” Fingaz said laughing and pointing at me like I was a chimp taking a shit at the zoo.

There was no way around it. Cameras are no different from strangers in the studio. I can’t actually feel comfortable about myself, when there is someone present that has nothing to do with the session. Even if I could get past the actual person holding the camera, the thought that someone might one day watch this footage and judge my actions was just too weird for me. There is no question about it—I HATE cameras in the Womb.

The Director, whom I’ve dubbed Haired Director, was so uptight he could shit a diamond. He was not in the least bit pleased with my behavior. I believe he called Jeramiah Weasel on more than one occasion, but Jeramiah didn’t bother to come by today, which I can’t for the life of me figure out. This was his shindig, and he wasn’t making an appearance? Haired Director was vibing me out, as if I were somehow ruining his production. One small part of me desperately wanted Haired Director to actually come right out and TELL me that I was ruining his production, so that I might have the opportunity to point out that he was, in fact, fucking up OUR production. Furthermore, if we make a record that has no chance of selling, he can be assured to have directed a documentary with no chance of selling. The film crew was the intruder—not me. I’m trying to make a record. If it makes the band play better, then great, I’m all for it. But personally, I would be content to be out of it.

As far as recording was concerned (the unfortunate subplot of this debacle), we actually recorded three songs today. I didn’t spend excessive amounts of time trying to dial in the exact sound. That’s not to say I sloughed it off. Quite the contrary, I am very happy with the sounds we got today. Sometimes working on a guttural basis and not over-thinking every decision is a very effective way of recording. It’s actually my most preferred way of recording. Unfortunately, it’s the least-used method of recording these days.

The way I figure it, the cameras are there to capture Dumb Ass’ footage more than anything else. Since he was on his way out, this was their only opportunity to get shots of HIM playing, as opposed to the ghost44 drummer they would likely bring in.

My feeling is this—if the band is going to play as well as they did today, then I’m all for the cameras. As far as the actual recordings are concerned, their presence has been positive. I suspect once the band gets used to the cameras, the playing will go downhill again, but for now, at least we were making progress. Not that it matters.

We’re just biding our time.

Mixerman

Day 23: Audio Placebo
Posted: August 29, 2:25 a.m.

Having learned my lesson on how NOT to act on a filming session, I decided to wear my normal studio clothes, which were basically jeans and a T-shirt. I typically bring a sweatshirt for when the air conditioning becomes a bit overbearing. Of course, with all the film equipment in the control room, the sweatshirt was nothing short of superfluous. Between a large frame console, enormous lights, massive amounts of outboard gear, and excessive bodies, the room never got below 85 degrees Fahrenheit.

I called Willy this morning to make sure that he would be coming today. He assured me that he would, but that he might be late. As usual, I filled him in on our progress. I told him of the band’s newfound energy from the presence of cameras. He was obviously pleased with this news, but his pleasure was displayed only briefly, as he had important information to dispense. Willy began to warn me that Jeramiah would be coming today, and that I was not to change ANYTHING based on his recommendations.

Great! I thought to myself, another political hornet’s nest. Just what I needed with cameras rolling.

Willy obviously had some inside information, because not only did Jeramiah show up, he was there before me. The second part of Willy’s prediction came true just minutes after the session began. It seems Jeramiah was uncomfortable with my recording drums to just six tracks.

“That’s two tracks too many,” I replied, hoping he would drop it at that.

Then he began to tell me about how the world-famous mixer Sir Arthur Conan Mixallot has become upset with him upon receiving so few drum tracks.

“Do the drums sound good to you?” I asked innocently.

“Well, yeah, I just think there should be more tracks,” he replied, ignoring the logic that I had set forth to him. I tried to just ignore his objections, but Jeramiah was a Mook’s Mook, and he wasn’t going to drop the subject. I tried to educate him, but he felt that Sir Arthur’s opinion outranked mine. The expression of that sentiment did nothing toward his cause.

“Are you saying that Sir Arthur doesn’t know what he’s talking about? He IS a highly respected engineer!” he replied, and so I abandoned that tack.

To discuss this subject further would only prove to be a complete waste of time. Jeramiah was being filmed, and he was not to be denied. Willy had warned me not to change anything. Even without such warning, I wouldn’t likely change the way I had everything set up just to appease some A&R Mook’s concerns that a mixer might be upset at having his hands tied later. After all, tying hands was my intention. Seeing as Jeramiah was pressing me so hard to change the drums, I had no choice but to give Jeramiah an audio placebo.

Jeramiah wanted 12 drum tracks, and I was printing 6 drum tracks. I didn’t require an abacus to figure out that if I bussed45 the identical set of drum mics to the next 6 tracks in line, I’d then have a full 12 tracks of drums. This exercise does nothing to change the sound of the drums. Two identical recorded signals summed together reproduce, for the most part, identically, save a 3-decibel jump in level. In other words, recording the identical 6 tracks of drums twice was nothing short of superfluous. All I was actually doing was making the drums louder. As far as Jeramiah was concerned, when I opened the other six tracks, the drums sounded much stronger, which they did because they were louder.

Unfortunately, by appeasing Jeramiah, he figured that he could just push me around. So Jeramiah began to pick on other things that he felt weren’t right. He felt that the snare drum really needed to “soar” more. I could tell that Jeramiah was a very persistent lad, and what he wanted he was going to get. So I ripped a small piece of white board tape that we use for labeling gear, and I wrote on it, “snare”, and then I wrote “soar” on another piece of tape. I carefully placed the “snare” label on an unused Pultec (the 35-year-old analog EQ that I used on the drums), as that particular piece of equipment has very large knobs. The implementation of an audio placebo works best when done with large knobs, because the person being duped really feels that he’s making a difference. Pultecs are also great for this because they have plenty of room for labeling, so I put the “soar” label directly above one of the large knobs.

“Turn this knob slowly… make SURE you turn it slowly, because if you add too much soar, you could blow out my speakers,” I told him as if I were telling a ghost story at a campfire.

“That’s the soar knob?” he asked excitedly.

No, Jeramiah, it only becomes a sore knob if you play with it too much, I thought to myself. Unfortunately, had I answered in this manner my ruse would have been over before it began, as he surely would have concluded that I had set-up him up purely for that line.

“Yes, if you turn that knob, the snare will soar,” I answered. “But for God’s sake, be careful!” I exclaimed.

“How does it work?” he asked.

At this particular question, I was momentarily taken aback. How does the soar knob work? Was he looking for a detailed technical explanation that he wouldn’t understand as to why the knob works? I considered saying that it worked through the power of suggestion, but that would have given away the ruse. So, I told him how it worked.

“It sends a harmonized signal through the flux capacitor chamber, which is then blended back in to the original signal using a time stretch mechanism,” I explained, pulling from my genetically passed-on ability to spew phenomenal amounts of bullshit on the spot and actually sound credible.

“Whoa!” Jeramiah exclaimed in awe of my expertise in such things.

So he ever so carefully toyed with his soar knob. I’d be surprised if he actually turned the knob more than a millimeter at a time. With each millimeter, I could see the expression on his face change at the obvious results. He kept adding the tiniest amount of soar at a time, until such time that he realized he had added too much, and he backed it down a notch. When he had settled on just the right amount of “soar,” he smiled, as if he could hear a difference. And I nodded enthusiastically.

“You know what?” I said, acting shocked and simultaneously impressed, “I thought it had enough soar, but it’s better now. You really have good ears!”

Lance, being privy to the entire episode of audio placebo, concluded that he deserved to be in on the fun. “I think you should add “thump” to the kik drum,” he interjected. So I made a “thump” label.

This sort of fun went on for the better part of an hour. As Jeramiah continued to turn knobs, he was obviously convinced that he was actually making a difference. There was an abundance of hand-written labels scattered over the knobs of unconnected gear. I was running out of knobs as the control room began to look like an elementary classroom with words taped up everywhere. Words such as “sheen,” “warmth,” “crack,” “heat,” “brass”—don’t ask me, Jeramiah wanted the guitar to sound more “brass.” Who am I to disagree?

Finally, Willy had arrived, and he immediately began scanning the gear rack. The band was playing a take, and Jeramiah was standing in front of the console with this smug little grin on his face, as if he’d actually made a difference. Willy began to further inspect all of the labels, and I grew concerned that he might blow the gag.

“Jeramiah made some improvements to my sounds,” I said. “Do you like how the snare soars now?” I said, as I pointed to the soar label on the Pultec.

Willy looked at me and smiled.

“I think it’s soaring a bit too much,” he replied as he reached to tone it down a notch.

Jeramiah questioned the validity of such an adjustment and expressed a slight concern with making such a move in the middle of a take. But Willy insisted it would be fine and that he only moved the knob a little.

“But the tiniest adjustment on that knob makes a BIG difference!” Jeramiah professed.

I kid you not.

Willy was obviously very pleased with the results. He listened as he smoked a fatty, at one point slightly confused at my double tracking of the drums. He looked at me in confusion, and I shook my head as I rolled my eyes in the direction of Jeramiah. Willy caught my meaning and said nothing of it. He felt the drum-playing had improved enormously, which it had. So much so that Willy was now prepared to abandon the ghost drummer concept. I warned him that we’d better keep the cameras here, and we better get down the songs as quickly as possible before Dumb Ass turns to shit again. He concurred.

We recorded another three songs today. Fingaz was editing the first three, very lightly, by taking mostly sections of the songs and cutting them together. We now have six songs in the bag in which the drums are pretty good, certainly acceptable. We would likely fire through another three tomorrow (knock on wood). There is a total of 17 songs to record, which in my opinion is seven too many, given the process of recording this band so far.

Even with the progress that we were making, I still have to make a decision on my October session. I was only booked on this session for two months’ time, and that is the full extent of my commitment. If the record goes over the allotted time budget and I’m booked, then it is bad planning on their part. I should not be expected to leave my schedule open-ended in order to accommodate lack of efficiency. Leaving is not a problem. I won’t get a rep as a quitter, as I will have accomplished what I was contracted for. Typically, I prefer to see a project through. It’s better for the continuity of the project and it’s often better for me. I prefer to stay on a project as long as possible, because I might very well get the opportunity to mix it, seeing as I have the track record for that. If I leave now, I’m guaranteed NOT to mix it.

As much as this diary has been a great outlet, I cannot make a decision to continue with the most dysfunctional gig in my career purely for the opportunity to document it. To further complicate matters, I am highly suspicious that this journal may be getting into the wrong hands. While many have predicted the likely end of my career with such brash disregard for the sanctity of a private session, the pundits have failed to take one fact into account.

There’s no such thing as bad press.

Mixerman

Posted: 30 Aug 2002 02:34 am
Post Subject: Day 24: On Strike

Today’s session was cancelled, so I spent the day with my family. It was great to spend the day with them, as I wasn’t so wiped out that I was just trying to do my best to put the old game face on. My son, at the age of 6, has an insanely intelligent grasp on humor. Today, as he was doing everything in his power to suppress a smirk, he said to me “Daddy, when I grow up I’m going to become an expert on not being funny.”

I’m not sure whether that line translates in print, but live, it was nothing short of hilarious. I call my son The King of Funny. My son calls me The King of Daddy - And it’s true.

Having a day like I had today makes me want to quit the business of making Major Label Records. Why should I spend 12 hours a day working with a bunch of shitheads, making a record that has no chance of ever being heard by anyone, when I could spend 8 hours a day with gracious, appreciative people making a record that has no chance of being heard by anyone? Oh yes, the money. But honestly, the money isn’t worth it. In California, it’s not as if you get to keep any of it. So what’s the point?

The best albums that I have mixed in the past 2 years have been made by the following: Unsigned Artists that paid for their own record to be made:Small Indie-Label Artists and Major Label International Artists with small budgets. I take on these records because they inspire me musically, and THAT is why I got into this business. I do records like these for a fraction of what I charge a Major Label, yet in the greater scheme of things, it’s still not cheap. But I’m happier doing these types of records. I’m sure a large part of the reason is that I choose the project, rather than the project choosing me. The other part is the quality of the people with which you do business.

Making music is sort of like dating. If you see a girl that you think is drop-dead gorgeous, but then you go and talk to her and she is obvious trash, her appearance changes for the worse. Music is similar, in that you can love the music, but once the people that make the music turn out to be shitty or uninspiring, the music quickly follows suit.

Apparently Willy was refusing to record until the film crew was gone (or so he says). He was trying to reach Marv Ellis in Europe. I guess we’re on strike.

I wonder if I’m getting paid.

Mixerman

Posted: 31 August 2002 03:14 am
Post subject: Day 25: The Offering

Willy called this morning and put the green light on the session. I asked him if the cameras were gone, and he said that the cameras were gone from the control room, but not the tracking room. I was actually glad for that, because the cameras in the Womb were incredibly obtrusive, but in the tracking room, they were providing the necessary inspiration for Dumb Ass to play like a man.

Every now and then, I’ll enter the control room from the tracking room. Throughout the course of a day, I will enter the tracking room often, but today I decided to actually walk through it on my way to the Womb. It gives me a chance to make sure the room is tidy for the guys, and that the mics haven’t obviously been bumped or torn down by overzealous PA guys. I get the opportunity to make sure the candles still have some life in them, and that there is plenty of incense. I realize most of this is Lance’s job, but I don’t trust anyone but myself to look out for me.

Today, as I walked through the tracking room, I noticed Willy and Jeremiah through the glass. They were arguing with each other in the Womb, and it was obviously a heated debate. As I was walking through, I saw Jeremiah look at me, and the argument stopped abruptly - although they were both obviously still pissed, they dropped whatever it was that they were discussing.

When I entered the control room, Jeremiah was slightly cold to me, and Willy was obviously still pissed about whatever it was they were discussing. Willy proceeded to spark up a fatty, which he seems to keep an endless supply of, as I rarely see him actually roll them. Willy offered me a hit, but I was already paranoid enough as it was so I declined even though Willy’s fatties don’t really make me paranoid. What makes me paranoid is heated discussions ending at the sight of me.

Jeremiah hung around uncomfortably, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. He tried to strike up conversations with me that were awkward at best. As I looked around the room I noticed that my audio placebo labels had all been taken down. I couldn’t help but wonder if this is what Jeremiah was arguing with Willy about. Lance had told me later that Willy asked him to pull them. But why?

The only member of the band that was at the studio was Dumb Ass, and he was in the tracking room playing his drums. Since everyone in the room felt this compelling need to talk but couldn’t think of a single thing to say, I decided to break up the awkwardness with a quick listen to the drums. It was painfully obvious that most of the drum heads were shot. So I went out into the room and offered to call the drum tech. Dumb Ass looked at me silently and then cautiously shook his head at the offer. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why someone who couldn’t tune a drum would turn down help in tuning his drums, so I pressed him. Finally I coaxed Dumb Ass to speak.

“Naw, naw, I don’t need that. I tune my own drums,” he said, sounding like a kid that didn’t want to admit that his mom picked out his clothes for him.

I was astounded by this statement. “You do?” I’m thinking to myself. But then I saw through my peripheral vision the reason for Dumb Ass’s odd behavior. We were being filmed. Oh yes, if only George Orwell could see us now. We were like in some sort of 1984 biosphere. Just what we needed.

There could be no doubt the cameras provided unbridled inspiration for the band, but they also pushed the bullshit meter off the charts. God forbid Dumb Ass actually admitting that he uses a tech to tune his drums - on camera. Every great drummer I’ve ever worked with -save one - has a drum tech. That’s not to say the greats can’t tune their own drums; quite the contrary, they can. But the greats DO typically use drum techs. Was it too much to admit that the not-so-great drummers use drum techs?

Since the bullshit meter was clicking like a Geiger counter in Chernobyl, I pointed out to Dumb Ass that we needed to change all the heads, and that he was needed for going over arrangement details. “Well, OK. You can hire a guy to put my heads on, and I’ll fine tune them after he gets them on there,” Dumb Ass replied, like a caricature of his childhood hero Cliff Claven from “Cheers”.

“Indeed.” I countered, as if I were Art Bell, and then immediately sorry that I had because the comment would, without a doubt, make the fucking film.

And so I went to call the drum tech over to change the drums. As I turned to walk back into the control room, Willy and Jeremiah were at it again, and when they noticed that I was walking towards the control room, the argument was once again disbanded.

Ignoring the fact that this kept happening, I informed Willy of our pending delay, as we were in need of new heads on the drums, and asked Lance to call the drum tech. Willy was fine with that, and I went to the couch to lay down for a while. I figured if those two wanted to argue, they could go somewhere else. But they stayed, and Jeremiah decided to ask me a question.

“I was wondering, what are your plans as far as this session is concerned?” Jeremiah asked.

What an odd question. What are my plans? Uh, gee, I don’t know. You’d think I was about to date his daughter or something. In which case the answer would be, “I intend to fuck her, Weasel.” Come to think of it, change the “her” to “it” and the answer would have sufficed.

As much as I would have loved to have said that, I knew I had to be cautious how I answered this question. I certainly wouldn’t want to give the impression that there was no way in hell I wanted to be working on this session anymore. This is LA, and that would be too honest for anyone in LA to handle.

“I’ve kind of agreed to work on a session in October.” I replied.

“With who?” he asked, as if that’s any of his fucking business.

“I wouldn’t want to jinx it,” I replied.

“So you’re not committed?” he pressed.

I decided that I would prefer to be the one asking the questions.

“Why do you ask?” I said coyly.

And then Jeremiah proceeded to tell me that they liked the job I was doing and that he wanted me to stay on. I told him that I was pretty much committed to this gig in October, but Jeremiah wasn’t satisfied with that, as he went on to ask me if I had a deposit, to which I answered “no”. I had played this conversation so well to that point, why the hell I answered “no” to that question is beyond me. I should have said, “of course”, and I lay there wanting to punch myself repeatedly for such a stupid response. I was even half-tempted to say “Did I say no? I meant yes.” But he wouldn’t have bought it.

Jeremiah spent the next 10 minutes lecturing me on the risks of this business, and that it would be in my best interest to stay on to a guaranteed gig as opposed to a gig that could possibly fall through. Then he went into how this record was of the highest priority at the Label, and that it was going to be a huge-selling album and would be a high-profile gig for me. Then he moved into telling me that I should be more responsible with my scheduling, and that I should expect these sorts of sessions to go over in time, etc…etc…blah, blah, fucking blah.

My kingdom for a clothespin! The room was starting to reek from all the bullshit that was being thrown about. Does this guy think I was born yesterday? Finally he wrapped up his monologue.

“…and I think it would be in your best interests to see this project to its completion,” he concluded.

I laid there on the couch at the thought of that. “…to its completion,” I thought. What a concept. And I started thinking about how rare it is these days to have the opportunity to record and mix an album in its entirety. Sure it happens, and I’ve done it myself. Too often, however, the mixes are sent out for the purposes of stamping a mixer’s name on the product. This was a project surely not an exception to that trend.

Mixers are hired to supply one of the following: Their time, their mixes, or their name. When an engineer is first starting out, he is usually charging for his time, and that includes his time for mixing. If an engineer starts to attempt to specialize in mixing as I did for so many years, then he is hired for his mixes. In that case, the mixer is paid for his mixes, and is charging for a certain quality of work, attention to detail, approach and fresh perspective.

A very select few mixers become a name mixer, and they are hired specifically for the purpose of having their name placed on the album. Labels want the name mixer, because he is associated with ‘big hits’. The thinking is, if the Program Director (PD) of a radio station sees that Sir Arthur Conan Blowhard mixed the album, the PD could be more likely to listen to the song, or possibly select the song. The competition to get on radio is so fierce that labels will do anything they must in order to get an edge up.

There is no real evidence that Program Directors actually care who mixed a song. The fact of the matter is, if the song and production are great, then the PD will spin it and see what the reaction is. If the reaction is strong, it gets more spins. Unfortunately, if the mix is weak, then the production is weakened, and the song likely won’t get played. That’s why the mix is so important.

As a consequence, name mixers are typically guys that have put out a significant amount of quality work. Unfortunately, what happens is that the name mixer becomes like a factory, partly because he is so in demand all he does is mix day in and day out. Because of this, rather than approaching each record as a separate work of art, the name mixer stamps a particular ‘sound’ on the record by using samples, and the identical processing chains (EQ’s, compressors, effects) on instruments so as to maintain a certain consistency. Unfortunately, this consistency usually provides good - but not great - results. That’s because there is no one way to mix that works for every production, yet this is often the approach of the name mixer. I suppose good work (as opposed to great) along with the name often causes people (the mooks) to believe that the mix is somehow great. This is akin to buying a coat off the rack, rather than having it custom made.

Now, judging whether a mix is great or not is subjective, and one can only truly judge whether the mix was brought to maximum potential if one is intimate with the raw tracks. Even then, it’s just an opinion, which is what makes this business so difficult. All decisions must be based on opinion.

I have recorded several albums in the past two years that have been mixed by the biggest names in the business, and I have always been sadly disappointed with how homogenized everything sounded in the end. It ‘s as if a name mixer goes out of his/hew way to stamp every bit of uniqueness out of a production. There is nothing more aggravating than recording an album to have a certain sound that works with the songs and the production, and then someone comes in to make it sound like everything else on the radio. So the concept that I might actually be able to negotiate for the mix was nothing short of appealing to me.

The real question: Did I really want to record this record to its completion? Mixes can only rise to the maximum potential of the production. At the moment, that potential was not as high as I would have hoped, although since the cameras had arrived, the drum tracks have been pretty damn usable. It’s quite possible that despite the roadblocks, an excellent album could come out of this.

After some time of processing these thoughts, out of nowhere, I came to a decision. I marvel at the brain’s ability to do this. It’s much like how the female egg in a human will immediately refuse penetration from any other sperm once the first sperm makes contact. My brain had hardened and made a rash decision, allowing for no negotiation. There was no way I was going to record this album to completion. To me, it just wasn’t worth it. There was no reason for me to stay on this project. The project October was a good one, and I should take that.

“I’m pretty much committed to the session in October,” I replied.

I might have been better off telling him I’d think about it, but there was no point in stringing him along since I was so sure of my decision to move on.

Then Willy, who had been silently leaning in his chair, with his legs up on the console leaned his head back and spoke.

“Perhaps the label would be willing to up your pay,” he said, looking at me sideways as he was likely too comfortable to actually turn around completely to look at me.

I sat there silently, with my hands behind my head, fingers linked. First I looked at Willy, and then intently watched Jeremiah. He looked incredibly uncomfortable, and was obviously taking some time to think about this.

“Yes,” Jeremiah said slowly, while looking at Willy. “Perhaps we would. What would make it worth your while to turn down your October gig?”

I stared at Jeremiah, who was staring nervously back at me. And I sat there, knowing for certain why Jeremiah was making such an offer. I also knew the price I wanted, but I really didn’t know whether I should say it. It wasn’t so much that I was worried he’d say no. I was worried he’d say yes.

As I pondered what my answer would be, out of nowhere there was a huge CRASH! It was one of the biggest crashes I’ve ever heard and it came from the tracking room. Jeremiah whipped around and both Willy and I stood up, and we all stood there in absolute amazement, with our mouths wide open. The glass that separates the control room and the tracking room is actually two pieces of inch-and-a-half glass with about a foot of space between them. That’s because the best isolation occurs when there is space between two hard surfaces. That isolation was now compromised, as the tracking room side of the glass had been completely shattered.

We all ran into the tracking room to investigate what had happened, and we saw Dumb Ass lying on the floor, writhing in pain and holding his wrist. Dumb Ass was covered in glass, and so we helped him up and carefully dusted him off. On the floor was a huge light that moments earlier had been in the air on a huge lighting stand. Willy asked Lance to take Dumb Ass to the Emergency Room, where it was later determined that Dumb Ass had broken his wrist in two places.

Exactly what happened still hasn’t been sorted out, as the cameramen were on a break. Their timing was impeccable, as they are sure to be in my face when I am being sarcastic with a well-placed Art Bell “indeed”, yet they’re nowhere to be found during what had to be one of the more spectacular falls in studio history. Since Dumb Ass had gone to the ER, we only had the eyewitness account of the drum tech, which was incomplete at best, as he hadn’t seen the entire sequence of events.

What we’ve pieced together is that Dumb Ass was lighting candles, in the guitar area, and got his foot caught in one of the lighting cables, causing him to trip and fall backwards - rather violently - into the stand that held one of the big lights. The light was a bit top heavy, and Dumb Ass was no Jack LaLanne , which proved to be a bad combination. Dumb Ass somehow managed to land on his wrist with the full weight of his body, causing great trauma. He’s lucky that’s all that happened, with all the glass that was everywhere. I have never seen an inch and a half piece of glass shatter like this. It was un-fucking real!

If I wasn’t before, I’m now convinced that this session is cursed. It’s time to bring in the sage weed for burning, to shoo out the evil spirits, because this was nothing short of a bad scene. At every turn, there is a new setback, disaster, or inconvenience. My kingdom for an inconvenience! While the idea of having a ghost drummer has been nothing short of appealing, Dumb Ass has finally been playing well enough to keep the gig. So what does the poor schmuck do? He goes and breaks his wrist.

Now I must spend the weekend considering exactly what my soul is worth, albeit with a limited-use clause.

I suppose that makes it worth considering.

Mixerman

Day 27:The Hidden Benefits Of Eating Sushi
Posted: September 5, 2:59 a.m.

Fingaz, who was mysteriously absent yesterday, went to Vegas for the second weekend in a row and was now moping around as if he were Paulie Yore. Unfortunately, the poor lad got suckered by the lure of winning a little, only to lose a lot.

The last time I went to Vegas, I mixed an album there, and I spent two weeks in the city, living at the MGM Grand. Let me tell you, two weeks in a Vegas mega hotel is 12 days too many. Apparently for Fingaz, two trips to Vegas is one trip too many, because he lost his ass. I couldn’t get an exact figure out of him, but I have this sneaky suspicion that Fast Fingaz was going to be Not-So-Fast Fingaz from this point forward.

“I be workin’ too fast, Yo’! I’m almost done and I lost my loot to da man!” he said to me. Perhaps it was this particular statement that gave me such sneaky suspicions.

Feeling a bit devilish, I pointed out to Fingaz a bit of little known trivia.

“You know, not too long ago they didn’t even allow Wegros in the casino. You know, back when Vegas was run by the mafia.”

“Word,” He replied with conviction. “Dey oppressed my peoples,” he informed me.

“Word,” I replied back, and Fingaz left for his shitter, as I sat there simply amazed at some of the conversations that I have on this session.

Johnny had come to the studio directly from his attorney’s office. Apparently, his lawyer was incensed by the fact that Johnny was caught driving intoxicated and was fighting his DUI arrest. Perhaps he was declaring the case unconstitutional. I’m not a lawyer, so I really wouldn’t know much about these things. Regardless of Johnny’s legal woes, he wanted to play guitar. Yore was already preparing to do same. I’ve been down this road before.

This time, I just lay on the couch as Johnny and Paulie argued for the better part of an hour. Far be it for me to interfere in a turf war of this magnitude. Every now and then they’d try to suck me into the discussion, but in the course of being a Dad, I’ve learned to grunt in ways that indicate no position whatsoever, and so they would be momentarily confused and then go back to their bickering. I was just grateful that Harmon wasn’t in the room, as I wouldn’t have gotten a wink of sleep with that cheese grater of a voice in the room.

The idiocy between Johnny and Paulie would have likely continued for hours had Willy not shown up. Willy, being sensitive to vibrations of discourse, immediately noticed tension in the air. Either that or he heard the yelling from down the hall as the argument was beginning to spin out of control. Willy, a skilled diplomat and having a firm understanding of how to mediate such disputes, sat both Johnny and Paulie down to work out their differences in a manner he could call his own. He sparked up a fatty.

It wasn’t long before I was, again, being asked my opinion, and since Willy was now present and the fatty had made its way to me, I decided to tell them what I thought.

“I think Paulie should come on Mondays and Wednesdays, and Johnny should come on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and the two of them should alternate Fridays,” I said as I sat up, slightly groggy from my nap. At first I wasn’t sure whether the three of them thought my idea was brilliant or idiotic, as they sat there staring at me silently with their jaws slightly ajar. Then I decided to hedge my bet.

“Or . . . not,” I said as I toked on the fatty.

The three of them, without a comment to my suggestion, went back to their discussion. They were making about as much headway with Willy’s presence as they were without it, save the fact that they now had the munchies and wanted to eat lunch. Me too! We ordered lunch, and Willy made an executive decision.

“Why don’t we allow Johnny to lay down his guitar parts today?” Willy said to Yore as he put his hand on his shoulder lovingly. OK, not really lovingly, but there was a certain tenderness to his approach that I hadn’t witnessed before.

Johnny is exactly the person that I would have picked, were I the producer and I had something else to do for the day. Without embarrassment, or the least bit of concern for appearances, Willy exited stage left, leaving me to the mess of recording guitars with the guitar player of lesser proficiency. Yore exited stage right, clearly displeased with Willy’s executive decision.

I began recording Johnny Knuckles as he struggled through guitar parts that a second-year guitar student could have easily played. Somehow, the simple parts were nothing short of challenging for Johnny. Perhaps his poor performances could be attributed to the cameras that were once again in the Womb. Johnny seemed to be concentrating more on how cool he looked on camera than on how well he played. It’s not often that I get the chance to see windmills in the control room during guitar overdubs. Of course, it was just another inappropriate goof on Pete Townshend. If ONLY Johnny were as cool as Pete.

Johnny’s instrument was a beautiful, vintage, fire red Gibson 335, an instrument that he didn’t deserve to play if you’re the type that believes fine instruments belong in the hands of fine players. I am that type. We had the guitar plugged into a 100-watt Marshall Head through a Marshall 4x12 cab.

I always have Lance by my side during the recording of Johnny Tone-Deaf’s guitar parts. That’s because Johnny can’t tune his own guitar. Being a keyboard player, I’m not super-fast at tuning guitars myself. Lance, who I have discovered through the course of the session to be a pretty smokin’ bass player, was also a fairly decent guitar player. Consequently, Lance was quite capable of tuning guitars, and quickly. This was Lance’s job. Johnny didn’t seem to give a shit that the cameras were capturing this so long as his hair was properly mussed up, and he looked cool when he was playing.

After about two hours of painstakingly recording rudimentary barre chords, we finally had those particular guitar doubles completed. Willy had been back at the complex for about half an hour, and upon my invitation, he came in to listen. Johnny was considering warming up for singing, but Willy felt that Johnny’s voice was a bit “husky” tonight for this particular song and sent him home for rest. Dumb Ass was in the room for the second day in a row practicing his left-handed percussion act—an act that hadn’t improved in the least. Thankfully, Willy told Dumb Ass to go home too. Most intriguing of all, he dismissed the film crew for the evening.

I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what kind of work we had to do, let alone work that required the removal of the film crew. I couldn’t make more slaves because Fingaz was moving like molasses since his fleecing in Vegas. He had nothing for us to listen to. I didn’t really have any tasks to do. Lance was completely caught up with his documentation, as we have both been keeping on top of our work. So, what were we going to do? Then Willy gave me that look I know so well. My favorite Willy Show look. The look that indicated he was feelin’ it. It was the look of a man that understands not only HOW to run a session, but when to RUN from a session. Yes, Willy had given me THE Look. It was Sushi time!

I jumped for joy!

“Before we go . . .” Willy said, neglecting to end his sentence. I watched him intently as he walked into the room. The way he said it, I didn’t get the impression he had forgotten something in the room. He had obviously left his statement open-ended for a reason. Willy walked methodically to the rack of basses in Harmon’s apartment, thoughtfully picked out a bass, and carried it back to the Womb. Willy walked right up to Lance and handed him the bass.

“Learn the bass parts for this song, and when we get back, we’re going to re-lay them,” Willy stated matter-of-factly.

I had to cover my mouth as I half-laughed, half-coughed, half-spit. It wasn’t as if I found this funny, although right now I do. No, it was the sheer boldness of such a move. I was merely having an involuntary reflexive physical reaction to the shock of such a surprising development. Lance appeared more dumbfounded than even I was, as I seriously considered walking up to him and closing his jaw out of courtesy. Lance was obviously gravely concerned about the ramifications of being caught red-handed doing such a thing. Who could blame him?

“What if Harmon comes by tonight?” Lance asked with a quiver in his voice.

“He won’t,” replied Willy, as he headed out of the Womb, signaling for me to follow.

Willy may have been willing to take such chances, but I wasn’t. I instructed the runner at the front desk that he was to call Lance immediately in the control room if anyone from the band arrived at the studio. Further, I instructed the runner that he was not to leave the desk position for any reason whatsoever. Willy found my precautions humorous. I found them to be nothing more than, well, precautious.

Willy and I made the drive to Nozawa, my favorite Sushi restaurant in L.A. If you sit at the Sushi Bar, you’re not allowed to actually choose what you eat, and I always sit at the Sushi Bar at Nozawa. It’s a very small place nestled in a tiny strip mall on Ventura Boulevard in the Valley. If you sit at the bar, the Sushi Chef, who I must assume is the owner, will not even allow one to make requests, as he will have you removed if you try. I know several people that have been removed for such atrocities as asking for a California Roll.

He’s the Sushi version of Jerry Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi: I could easily imagine him saying “NO SUSHI FOR YOU!” There are signs all over the wall that say “trust me” in both Japanese and English. But this little restaurant is worth the chef’s idiosyncrasies because the fish is so phenomenally fresh and of such high quality, that it literally melts in your mouth. To date, I have not been asked to leave the establishment, but that’s because I’m very prudent. I make no sudden movements, I thank him and bow my head to him on a regular basis, I speak only when I am spoken to, and I NEVER look him in the eye. He always smiles at me when I’m leaving, because I think he derives enjoyment that I am so fearful of him.

As Willy and I were sucking down the most fantastic tuna sashimi in ponzu sauce with scallions, I broached the subject of assistants replacing bass parts.

“Don’t you think Harmon might figure out that someone else is playing the parts?” I asked.

“If he does, he does,” Willy responded, as he took a bite of raw tuna. I couldn’t help but think that our surroundings were inspiring this sort of Zen-like response. I had heard all that I needed to know at that point, and so I abandoned the subject. I was considering asking him more questions about the project, but somehow I doubted that even HE knew the answers to my questions, and so I would allow it to unfold for me as pleasant little surprises, much as it has to this point.

As we drove back to the studio parking lot, I was relieved that there were no Bitch Slap vehicles in the yard. We went to see how Lance was doing, and not only had he learned the parts, he had already laid them down. Holy shit! What a difference it made! The song had come alive. I could now actually groove to the music. I was having a physical reaction that I have not had on this session to this point. Willy was also moving to the music.

“Did you change anything?” I asked Lance.

“No,” Lance replied. “I think the bass parts are great, he just can’t play them very well.”

The ramifications of this were mind-boggling. Half the band will have been replaced with session players. One of the session players was unauthorized by the band. I suppose if the final product is going to improve from such misrepresentations of the truth, then what’s the harm?

After all, I can keep a secret.

Mixerman

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