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MIXERMAN:
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Post subject: Week 1: The Daily Adventures of Mixerman
- A Documentary
Day 26: It’s All In The Mix
Posted: September 4, 3:14 a.m. — Week 6
There have been events over the course of this diary, which I have found
to be suspicious. While I have no lack of confidence where my personal
likeability is concerned, I felt Marv Ellis’ enjoyment of me and
his overt vote of approval for my role in this recording process to be
slightly overstated. In fact, I couldn’t help but get the feeling
that our entire dinner was staged. And what of Willy discussing the importance
of discretion, post our dinner with Marv? Was that some sort of warning?
I found that discussion to be nothing short of odd.
Then there was the sudden and inexplicable removal of the audio placebo
labels, soar, thump and the like. In and of itself this wouldn’t
have been nearly as suspicious had I not witnessed those heated arguments
between Willy and Jeramiah. What of Jeramiah’s sudden coldness towards
me? Surely, he was aware that I played him for the fool. But how did he
find out?
As if that wasn’t enough to peak my paranoia, there was the “name
your price” game. I’ve been negotiating with record companies
for over a decade. To date, I have never seen the recordist get to name
his price. Why was it so important to Jeramiah that I stay on the session?
I’m just the recordist. There are many, many qualified engineers
that Jeramiah has worked with over the years that could easily come in
and take over. It’s not like there’s some sort of flow going
here. Quite the opposite, really.
Still, after a three-day extended leave of absence from the Bitch Slap
madness; after countless hours of strategizing, hypothesizing and the
like; after the relentless pursuit of playing out possible scenarios in
my head, I have come to the conclusion that I should abandon my suspicions
as nothing more than paranoia. For even if I were correct, no matter how
I play the game in my head, it is without a doubt best if I ignore completely
the possibility that this diary is somehow being read by the record company,
and continue on as if there were an elephant in the middle of the room
that everyone was conveniently choosing to ignore. So that is how I shall
proceed with these journal entries from this point forward.
Recording drums today was out of the question since Willy’s prescheduled,
ghost replacement drummer wouldn’t arrive in town until next Sunday.
It’s just as well, because the panel of glass that Dumb Ass shattered
with his extraordinary grace was still missing. The sonic isolation that
we once enjoyed was now compromised. Willy was considering keeping the
takes that Dumb Ass had done. Apparently, he wanted to finish the productions
in their entirety before actually making that decision. I suppose upon
the completion of Fingaz’ editing of the Dumb Ass “camera”
takes, it was quite conceivable that we would have the drum tracks for
half an album. Willy’s plan was to try and lay down the overdubs
on as many of those songs as possible.
First up was Harmon Neenot, the bass player, well-established as one of
the most God-awful singers on the planet, perhaps even in the universe—as
I couldn’t imagine an alien sounding quite so wretched. Harmon could
have easily been one of the lead singers of Milli Vanilli, as he would
have likely been on even par with Rob and Fab, the two non-singers of
the group.
Milli Vanilli is famous for one of the biggest scandals in the history
of the music business. They were like the Quiz Show of the eighties. Scandalous!
The vocals on Milli Vanilli’s hit album (approximately 10 million
units sold) were not sung, as advertised, by the two handsome front men
of the group, but rather by ghost singers. Apparently, Rob and Fab wanted
desperately to sing their music live as opposed to lip syncing, but, alas,
weren’t up to the task, and people quickly realized that these two
couldn’t possibly have sung the vocals as presented on the album.
Upon the discovery that Rob and Fab couldn’t even carry a tune,
let alone sing a hit song, Milli Vanilli had their Grammy and their RIAA
(Recording Industry Association of America) record sales awards revoked.
There was even clamoring from advocacy groups that consumers should get
their money back, although I really don’t know what came of that.
Apparently, the listening public finds it distasteful to buy a CD that
is a misrepresentation of the truth. Personally, I don’t see the
difference between hiring a ghost singer that can actually sing in tune
and using software to redraw the waveforms of notes, thereby putting a
lousy singer in tune. Both cases are egregious misrepresentations of the
truth. I suppose it’s also tolerable for the drums, bass, and guitars
to be played by someone else, as long as it’s not the singer that
is replaced. For some reason, as long as the singer is actually the true
source, and technology is responsible for the manifestation of misrepresentation,
this is somehow acceptable to us. Perhaps, deep down, we are comfortable
with these distortions, because we are all still incredibly grateful to
the photographer that edited out that awful blemish from our school picture.
I know I am.
I went in a little early today, as it was necessary for me to make some
slaves of the edited drums. As I was driving, I was encouraged by the
fact that I wouldn’t have to deal with Dumb Ass anymore. It was
the best drive to the studio I’ve had in some time. The way I felt,
you’d have thought I was going up to Big Bear Mountain for a much-needed
mini-vacation. I was elated. Of course, that elation was shot to hell
the moment I pulled into the parking lot, as there, on the patio before
me, was Dumb Ass in all his glory, picking his nose and eating his boogers
with the hand that had the cast on it. I made a mental note not to sign
his cast today.
As Dumb Ass followed me into the control room like he was my most loyal
dog or pig, as if I were the sort of person that would own either, I felt
as though I had hopped right into a pool of quicksand. I was sinking,
and quickly. For what I had failed to take into account was that if Dumb
Ass wasn’t playing the drums, then he’d never be in the drum
room. And if he was never in the drum room, then he’d often be in
the Womb. The presence of Dumb Ass in the control room was similar to
being in a womb with a ripped placenta—very uninviting and distressing
to the occupants.
Dumb Ass was exercising his true talent in life—making the lives
of those around him miserable. He wouldn’t leave me alone as he
yapped endlessly. I had a job to do, and I was trying desperately not
to pay him any attention. But he was as irritating as a fly that had nothing
better to do than buzz endlessly around my head.
In reviewing Lance’s notes, which were nothing short of a thesis
on the concept that too much information can be equally as debilitating
as not enough, I was attempting to decipher exactly which songs had slaves,
which songs didn’t, and which songs Fingaz had finished editing.
Dumb Ass was still firing questions at me relentlessly, and although I’d
tell him that I really needed to concentrate on what I was doing, this
would only buy me about a minute before regularly scheduled interruptions
resumed.
At one point, Dumb Ass brought a tambourine and started playing it with
his left hand, as I was listening to a take.
“Hey! I can still play percussion on the album!” he proclaimed.
He could have just as easily been clenching the tambourine with his teeth
and shaking his head, because that’s about how fluidly he played.
Finally, I just told him that he was being excused from the Womb, and
he started laughing like a retard, as if I was kidding.
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” I asked him as I pointed
to the door and he slunk away. Good dog.
Both Willy and Jeramiah arrived around the same time today. From the moment
Jeramiah got out of his car, I could tell that he was dying to get me
alone. He was surely determined to pin me down on my schedule. But after
an entire weekend of pondering what staying on this gig was worth to me,
I decided I wasn’t going to name a price at all. Jeramiah would
have to make me an offer that I could refuse.
I pulled every trick in the book to thwart his maneuvers to speak with
me. Mind Tricks were proving useless, but I knew he wouldn’t want
to discuss my fee with any of the band members present. I even hung around
Dumb Ass in order to prevent the inevitable discussion. To be sure, my
desire to avoid a conversation with Jeramiah was fierce, considering I
was willing to subject myself to the constant idiocies of Dumb Ass.
Once Harmon Neenot had arrived, we prepared for recording bass parts over
the drums. Personally, I’d rather have a weak drummer on a record
than a weak bass player, as it’s really the bass that anchors the
song. There are those that might argue this sentiment, but they aren’t
here, now are they? A great bass player can even make up for less than
stellar drumming. Unfortunately, Harmon wasn’t making up for shit.
I think he’s been playing with Dumb Ass for too long as Harmon has
the identical, sickening rocking back and forth motion in his playing.
I’ve never heard this phenomenon in a bass player before, and I
hope to God I never hear it again.
About midway into the recording process, my carpal tunnel was killing
me from the amount of punches I had to make. Finally I just switched to
my left hand, which isn’t so much of a problem, except that I couldn’t
face Harmon. For logistics alone, it became necessary to turn the remote
around. This is nothing short of a circus act when you consider that the
remote for a 2” machine is cumbersome at best, weighing approximately
50 pounds, connected to large umbilical cord of wires that tend to get
in the way. To make matters worse, the umbilical cord was just about at
its limit, making maneuverability extremely poor, at best. If you’ve
ever watched the Peanuts cartoon where Snoopy has a wrestling match with
a lawn chair, you have an accurate depiction of what I was going through
trying to turn around the machine controller.
The film crew managed to somehow convince Willy to film in the control
room, since there was really nothing going on anywhere else, save Dumb
Ass practicing his imitation of a quadriplegic percussion player (personally,
I would have thought that to be more than worthwhile footage). I watched
him through the one pane of glass, the other of which would not be replaced
until a custom piece of glass arrived. The replacement glass had been
rush-ordered, and was due to arrive sometime on Friday.
Although it was Willy who had granted permission for the film crew to
enter the Womb, either he didn’t want to be filmed, or he had no
desire to spend the afternoon recording half a measure of bass at a time,
so he exited stage left with Jeramiah. Lucky him! This left me to record
Harmon with a camera in my grill.
Harmon was so flustered by the camera that I had to try to convince him
that he would ultimately have approval of the final cut. I wanted to point
out that it wasn’t in the record company’s best interest to
let the world see that this band couldn’t play for shit, but I decided
against that tack. Rather, I explained to him that this was the process
we go through, even with the best players.
As much as I loathed going into the telling of white lies, so long as
I was able to expedite the recording of bass parts, I could live with
myself. Besides, appeasing Harmon was always of great importance as he
was without a doubt the most vocal, and certainly the most abrasive, member
in the band.
Harmon’s whiny voice is so piercing and so brutally annoying that
sometimes I consider purchasing a chalkboard on which I could scrape my
nails in order to drown out the sound of his voice. It’s that bad.
Because of his unusually irritating voice, he has the unique capability
of winning arguments with little to no resistance. The repelling nature
of his voice was the antithesis of a Siren. In fact, I would like very
much to see a battle between a Siren and Harmon Neenot, as I’m sure
that he would emerge victorious.
Along with his annoying voice, Harmon has some atrocious manners. He farts
constantly, which unfortunately, is his least egregious offense on good
etiquette. I absolutely refuse to ever shake his hand as he constantly
picks his butt, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, he will invariably
smell his picking finger. If his hand isn’t somewhere near his ass,
then one can usually find it planted firmly in the waistband of his pants,
much like the character Al Bundy from the Married With Children TV show.
He is so much a caricature of disgusting habits that one can’t help
but focus on the humor of such blatant displays of grossness. Still, Harmon’s
idiosyncrasies (OK, I’m being kind here, savor the sensitive moment)
are relatively harmless, as long as you don’t touch him and as long
as you’re not a woman. It’s the women that should avoid him
like the plague, as proven by how he treats his girlfriend.
Harmon derives great pleasure from putting down his girlfriend. He calls
her trailer trash to her face, which to me is the epitome of the pot calling
the kettle black. In his defense, however, I must say she IS trailer trash.
I wouldn’t admit that to him though, as I could only imagine that
might further encourage such statements. When she’d call him on
his cell phone, he’d yell at her, calling her a bitch and telling
her that he was busy. He would then proceed to tell her that she should
know better than to call him when he’s busy. How does someone know
that you’re busy when they’re calling you on the phone? And
why would you answer the cell phone if you’re busy? But I didn’t
dare ask him that for fear that I might have to listen to a 10-minute
explanation of how she’s just a fucking whore and needs to be kept
in her place. Just the thought of having to listen to him talk for that
length of time is too much for me to bear.
Strangely, despite Harmon’s bad manners and poor behavior toward
women, which I could easily chalk up to the results of poor upbringing;
despite vocal chords that could rip through steel, which I couldn’t
really hold him accountable for as that is the work of nature; yes, despite
his many shortcomings Harmon was the member of the band I could tolerate
the most. As much as it pains me to say this, all things being relative,
he is without a doubt my favorite member of the band.
What I find most interesting is how someone as uncouth and as vile as
Harmon could actually be such a great songwriter. In my opinion he’s
hands-down the best songwriter in the band. Of course, he doesn’t
tend to write the sensitive songs. How could he with his personality and
a voice that would make any young femme run for cover? These sorts of
songs are reserved for lead singer Johnny Hard-On. Harmon’s songs
tended to be the everyman, mantra-style songs. They’re usually incredibly
infectious, and one can’t help but sing along.
I was checking our bass work on the third song by the time Jeramiah and
Willy had returned. I gave up my chair to Willy and allowed him to listen
to what we had done. Then I made the tactical error of sitting on the
couch in the back of the room, thus giving Jeramiah the opportunity to
speak to me. Still, I couldn’t avoid him forever, and at least I
had gotten some work done.
I can’t stand discussing business bullshit before I’ve gotten
work done. It throws off the whole day to be thinking about what someone
said to you, or how someone has lied to you, when that has little to do
with actually making a record.
“So, have you made a decision?” he whispered to me on the
back couch of the room.
The music was playing, and it was unlikely that anyone could hear us.
Feeling somewhat lazy, I chose to remain there for our conversation.
“I’ve decided to let you make ME an offer,” I replied
quietly.
Jeramiah sat there without saying a word for quite some time. I was going
to allow him to take whatever amount of time he needed. The ball was now
in his court. Willy had moved on to the next song before Jeramiah finally
decided to speak again.
“How about if you get first shot at mixing the album,” he
quietly said, looking me straight in the eye.
I was floored. Getting first shot at mixing the album could quite possibly
make the misery of recording Bitch Slap worth my while. At least I would
know that the quality of my recordings will likely be retained in the
mixes, as opposed to getting back mixes that sound nothing like the record
was intended to sound. Even the producer is often disappointed when mixes
return, as his hands are tied when a big-name mixer is hired.
At this level of spending, it is rare for anyone other than the biggest
“names” in mixing to have the “opportunity” to
mix this kind of project. I say opportunity, but really, to a name mixer,
it’s no opportunity at all. It’s just another paycheck, and
for good reason, the paychecks are quite large; anywhere from $50,000
to $100,000 for 1-2 weeks worth of work. Anyone fortunate enough to command
that kind of money is typically profit-sharing, as well, with the usual
cut being one percent of the MSRP (Manufacturers Suggested Retail Price),
paid by the artist, and forced by the record company. At $17.00 a CD,
that can add up to a nice chunk of change were there to be a hit.
The record companies will have anyone who will listen believe that a mixer
commanding that kind of money (and I’m not by any stretch of the
imagination complaining) has an uncanny ability or knowledge of how to
mix a hit. But the reality is that these mixers actually have many more
flops than they do hits. But because of the level of spending, they get
considerably better opportunities for hits, thus giving them more hits,
and thus charging the record companies more money.
Were I to get paid based on the high hopes of record companies, I’d
be retired by now. That’s because the Mooks are so accustomed to
blowing smoke up people’s asses, they start to believe their own
hype. Oh, how many times have I gotten a record that was supposed to be
an opportunity for me? HAH! Even a “sure thing” is suspect
at best. No! One is only given the opportunity in this business to work
on great music, or meet great people—not to mix a hit. Being given
the opportunity to mix a hit would require a crystal ball, and I can assure
you that the record companies have not a single crystal ball among them.
A label’s desire for me to mix or to not mix a record has little
to do with the quality of my work. I have a track record of mixing well-respected
albums. I still do a considerable amount of mixing. It’s just that
these days I also do a lot of tracking as well. Really, the only reason
I took this gig was because it would give me an opportunity to work with
Willy Show. The more big name producers that one can have as one’s
clients, the better.
I suppose, in the perspective of the label, having me mix the album isn’t
really taking a chance. It’s not like they never use alternate mixers—they
do occasionally. It’s not like they MUST use my mixes if they don’t
like them for some reason. They only have to pay for them. But having
the first shot at the mixes gives me a leg up, as any subsequent mixes
are being compared to mine rather than the other way around. Although
this might not seem, on the surface, as any kind of advantage, given human
nature, it is.
Jeramiah had made a reasonable offer. But if I was going to record and
mix this album, then I was going to want to profit-share. So I decided
to up the ante a little.
“I want my full mix rate, plus a point and I’ll want it in
writing,” I said, staring him down like I held five aces to his
pair of twos. And Jeramiah nodded unenthusiastically in agreement.
“My manager will call you in the morning to hammer out the details,”
I said, shaking his hand and going back to the console to see how our
bass overdubs held up to the scrutiny of Willy Show.
Willy was fine with the bass parts, and wanted to lay down some guitar,
so we summoned Yore from the lounge and recorded the guitar parts on one
of the songs. Suddenly, mysteriously, I was beginning to enjoy life as
a recordist again. And while I’m not deluding myself that this project
has even the most microscopic, minuscule, infinitesimal chance of ever
even being released, let alone being successful, there was still a chance.
At this particular moment, I am enthusiastic, as now I have a vested interest
in this project.
Funny how that works.
Mixerman
© 2002, 2004 Mixerman Multimedia, Inc.
— All Rights Reserved.
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