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WELCOME TO THE DAILY ADVENTURES OF MIXERMAN:
A DOCUMENTARY

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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

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