The Daily Adventures of Mixerman - ebook

“All literature is gossip,” offered Truman Capote, in the sly, able way that only someone who has mastered his own art form is allowed to get away with. While a flip remark initially, the quote itself has become more insistently true with the passage of time. Whether it’s the _New York Times_, Hunter Thompson, or Boswell’s _Life of Johnson_, we’re never quite sure who said what, who did what, or what really happened. Through all the complexities of reporting human existence, one thing is certain: All stories are true.

When news and entertainment decided to fully consummate their marriage sometime in the 1980s, we were faced with inconsiderable checks and balances. Like every other industry, the music business was left with few people to call it on its own excesses. Sure, entertainment had always been news—but news hadn’t always been entertainment. And, while the Beatles may have been as popular for their hair as for their music in the mid-’60s, it could be asserted that, in the mid-’80s, Madonna, while popular as a singer, was idolized for, well, being popular. Tenacity, not talent, had become the _sine qua non_ of the modern entertainer.

By the time the Internet exploded into everybody’s living room, we had a bloom of self-appointed critics and experts, most of them dilettantes. No longer did you have to get published. You pushed a button and you were. Rants, blogs, and critiques were everywhere—right alongside porn, hobbyist newsgroups, and institutional forums for academic exchange. With the personal computer, the instant Norman Mailer was born.

Unfortunately, as is often the case of those who wallow in the blush of new technology, this new frontier of self-expression fostered mostly a dull, solipsistic bunch of drivel. People initially enchanted by the Web were rapidly disillusioned at how boring all that browsing could actually be. Every once in a while though, you get lucky. Enter Mixerman.

On July 27, 2002, the mysterious music insider, who had already gained a reputation for dispensing sound technical advice via Usenet, started chronicling the day-to-day goings-on of a recording he was making for a large record company. It was a little slice of the rock and roll dream—a young band promised stardom, a big budget, and a name producer. However, instead of the story we’d all heard about getting to the top, riding in limos, and being chased by throngs of screaming fans, this was something different. It had all gone terribly wrong. Not only had the wheels fallen off, but, as one delved further, one started to see the truth illuminated: This immethodical circus was not the exception. Perhaps it was the rule. Perhaps it always had been.

Industry professionals immediately identified with the empirical details, and the uninitiated were equally drawn in by this rubbernecking view of making records. There was clattering speculation as to the who, when, and where of it, but everyone knew Mixerman was not a poseur. To those who knew him personally, he was an established, respected professional. To those who didn’t, it was clear he was no Trojan horse.

By its fourth week, the diary was getting 25,000 hits a day and drawing attention from every stripe of the music business, as well as other bloggers, Internet junkies, and insiders. It was a phenomenon.

Being suspicious by nature, I got there a little late. Why the hell should I read what I already knew? When I did, I realized it wasn’t the usual safe Dennis Miller shill in the guise of rebellion. It was actually great. Dryly funny and, while the style was cocky, it completely lacked the shrill egoism to be some kind of boorish self-advertisement. Rather, one pictures, like any good diarist, Mixerman—a person thrust into an aesthetic situation that seemed too hard not to document. Is it satire? Perhaps. But Daumier and Lewis Carroll were satirists too—arming their point of view with the truth rather than spastically mocking their audience with rude invention.

The diary went on in fits and spurts, winding its way into subplots and then returning to form again. Abruptly, it ended on December 10, 2002, the final chapter never published.

In this book, for the first time, we now have the completed diary as God and Mixerman himself intended. The final chapter is here, too, for new readers, as well as the more than 140,000 Web readers who may have lost a night’s sleep here or there, wondering what became of their all-too-human, less-than-gifted cast of characters.

All stories are true. This one is no exception. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty. Of course, it doesn’t really matter. The old saw is that truth is stranger than fiction, but the best fiction distills the truth down to its most fiercely compelling attributes.

This is a book of both humor and truth, something rare, and independent of fact or fiction. Music of conviction and personality will always go on, but in this artistic end of days, where Jimi Hendrix is sold as nostalgia rather than art, and rock and roll, once rebellious, is so establishment that there’s a Les Paul in every doctor’s and lawyer’s closet; the music that a lot of us grew up on has been so mollified we can barely recognize it.

Rock and roll is dead. Consider this its autopsy.

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––Philip StevensonLos Angeles

Posted: July 27, 10:33 a.m.

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On Monday, July 29, I begin a new project. I will be recording an album of a band for a very famous producer. The band is relatively unknown other than within the record industry, which, for the most part, is currently filled with bitter losers of the biggest bidding war in the history of the music business.

I am an acquaintance of the producer—although “acquaintance” likely exaggerates the depth of our relationship. I did record for him once, but only for two hours, and I’m not entirely confident he’d even remember that. I can assure you, he would have never thought to hire me if it weren’t for the band.

You see, I know the band. Or perhaps I should say I know half the band. Regardless, the band members are fans of my work.

The bands are often fans of my work. Hell, they don’t know any better. They listen with the innocence of a person who enjoys music and musicality. They are still, to some extent, pure as listeners. They do not have the baggage of needing a hit affecting their judgment.

Yet.

If I could describe what I know of the band in just two words, those words would have to be _supreme negotiators_. The label wanted them to use one of a short list of producers. From what I understand, there were two names on said list. The band members, understanding the ways of the world, pointed out to the label that it was really their choice as to what producer they hired. After all, _they_ were the ones who would ultimately pay the producer’s advance and royalties. Hell, they’d be paying him a balloon payment for their sales before they made a dime in royalties, setting them even further in debt. Of course, the record company pointed out that it was the label’s up-front money that would allow the record to be made in the first place.

Just in case that wasn’t enough of a reality dose, the label also explained that, although it paid over two million dollars for the right to have them, it would be perfectly content if the only purpose for spending that money were to prevent the other “children” from having them. Ouch! The band looked at the short list and made the obvious choice.

The first name on the list.

As I said, the band members are supreme negotiators, and while they lost their first big negotiation where the making of their album was concerned, they had an alternate plan. They would get an ally in the room. That’s where I come in. They insisted in their negotiation that I record the album. Oh, yeah. You can imagine how that went over. Mixer who? Mixer what? The label, not wanting to seem completely unyielding, and firmly believing that the tracking engineer has little power in the direction of the album (heh, heh), agreed, so long as the producer was cool with it.

As it turns out, the producer is familiar with my work, which I suppose isn’t so hard to believe. After all, we _are_ acquaintances. Countless times we have passed each other in the halls on the way to and from the loo. Perhaps that was the clincher, I don’t know. Regardless, the producer agreed to meet with me and ultimately agreed to the band’s terms. Now the band has its ally.

Of course, the band is overlooking the fact that in the next three years, the producer will probably record in the neighborhood of twelve albums, while the band is God knows where, playing the same fifteen songs every night, wondering why they would ever write such trash. And if I were to connect the dots for you, the producer could offer me a hell of a lot more work in the coming years than the band could. But yes, despite this, I am surely the band’s ally.

And so I have decided that in the coming months, I will be documenting my daily adventures in recording an L.A. bidding-war band with a famous producer. Romance novels have been written on the basis of less, so why not? It’s entirely possible this documentation will be complete come Tuesday. You never know, I could be fired. But for now, I’m hired, and we start Monday. Each morning, I will supply you with documentation of the past day’s events. The identities of those involved will not be revealed, so as to protect the not-so-innocent.

Knowing the band (or at least half of it) and having some knowledge of how the producer operates, I expect it could be an interesting read. Add in the cast of characters that work for the label, who are not without their own fame, and we have the makings of a veritable soap opera. Or it could be the most uneventful album I’ve ever made.

But, somehow, I doubt that.

MixermanDay 1

Posted: July 30, 12:01 A.M.

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According to most of the world, the crack of dawn would be just about the time the sun peeks above the eastern horizon. In studio terms, however, the crack of dawn is approximately 10 a.m., and this is precisely the time that I arrived at the studio today. I can assure you that in the world of record making, 10 a.m. would be considered a downright obscene time in which to start a session. But today was setup day, and an early start was absolutely critical. Although, in retrospect, I wish I had shown up at noon.

In setting up a session I have two main goals. First, I want to make certain that the session can move forward without a hitch. The more organized the session, the more readily available instruments and microphones are, the faster the session can move. Second, I take great pains to be sure that everyone is as comfortable as possible, including me. A little extra time, care, and effort in the setup can go a long way toward these goals—hence the early start.

Upon my arrival, I headed immediately to the recording room, which, from this point forward, will be referred to as merely “the room.” The room was, as expected, in complete disarray with instrument and recording cases strewn about. It is a very large room, approximately forty feet wide, fifty feet long, and with twenty-five-foot ceilings. There are also several decent-size isolation booths¹ attached to the room, two of which flank the control room.

The cases contained all manner of instruments—amplifiers, drums, and general recording gear—that were to be used for this session. The cases were to be removed from the room and stacked against the enormously long wall lining the hall. The gear within the cases was to be set up in assigned locations—assignments that I had planned out well in advance and supplied to the studio via fax.

Among the stacks of cases stood a not particularly handsome young lad, whom I assumed (correctly) was the drummer. He was methodically assembling his drums smack-dab in the middle of the room. The way I figured it, this was likely more positive than had he not been there at all, but certainly less positive than had he actually been setting up his drums in the correct spot, which, in this case, was _not_ in the middle of the room.

As I watched him, another young lad entered the room carrying a load of cables and some microphones. He was a tall, lanky kid, laden with acne, with but a single eyebrow running across both eyes, neglecting the usual break above the nose. He wore the fairly typical nondescript studio garb of a washed-out pair of jeans, no belt, and a severely faded T-shirt, bearing the name of the studio upon it. Saving his pathetic ensemble were a beautiful necklace made from beads of rosewood and a rare ’70s-era stainless steel Rolex Explorer watch. I can only assume the watch was some sort of hand-me-down-style graduation gift given to him to celebrate his completion of a two-year course in audio engineering—a course in which I’m quite certain he learned nothing of any real value. Still, I suspect he had a good upbringing, partly for the watch and partly because he immediately stopped to acknowledge me.

“Hey, I’m Lance,” the lad said, holding out his pinky finger, as his arms were too full to offer his entire hand.

“Hey, I’m Mixerman,” I replied, helping relieve him of some of the cables. “Are you my assistant?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

”You didn’t happen to get my fax with the instructions and the locations of the players, did you?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Thanks? _Thanks???_

I looked around the room, half wondering if I were on _Candid Camera_, as I noticed that there were no mics² set up, and there were no headphone boxes, no music stands, no A/C strips.³ Nothing was set up, save a rug and some drums—in the wrong place, no less. I had taken several hours of my time putting together instructions to have all of these things set up, or at least nearly set up, before I had arrived. I had marked a to-scale map of the room, notating where each member of the band should reside, taking into account the acoustics of the room and the sight lines.

Thanks? He thanks me for my fax that he has thus far ignored?

“Did you happen to get the diagram of where I wanted the players to be placed?” I asked.

“Yeah, I got it. But no one ever puts drums where you wanted them.”

MOTHERFUCKER!

I hate to say it, but under normal circumstances, I would have just fired his ass. This session will be costing the label, and ultimately the band, thousands of dollars per day, and it’s my job to make sure the session flows smoothly. If the session is _not_ running smoothly, I will get the blame. Not my assistant.

Unfortunately, the producer spends a significant amount of the year in this room. It could prove problematic if the producer found out that I went off half-cocked and fired his favorite assistant. My every instinct said that I was on shaky ground to begin with on this session, so for the moment, I chose the diplomatic route. I calmly and carefully explained to Lance that I would like the drums set up where I had originally planned, regardless of what anyone else had done prior to my arrival.

“Let’s just set them up over there, okay?” I quipped.

“Okay, whatever you want. All I know is this is where the producer likes them.”

I stared at Lance, unable to respond partly for fear that I might say something that I would regret, partly because I never actually saw a person with one eyebrow, and mostly because I had not yet consulted the producer with my setup plan. This was a fact that I was now painfully aware of given Lance’s comment.

I chose to abruptly drop this line for a moment and focus my attention on the drummer. For the most part, his drums were set up, as he was obviously making some final adjustments. Not wanting to disturb him, and in an effort to keep the session progressing in some manner, I leaned down next to his snare drum to investigate the spacing in which I had to thread a mic. Typically, this procedure is a relatively safe exercise. Today, it was an exercise fraught with danger, as the drummer suddenly and inexplicably began whaling on the snare drum.

_Fuck!_ That hurt.

Startled would be an understatement, here. Were I a cat, I would have been on the ceiling holding on for dear life. To make matters worse, I stood up so quickly I hit my head and my shoulder on his cymbals, just barely retaining my balance enough to grab his drumstick in mid-strike as I steadied myself with my hand on his snare drum. All in all, this was a dangerous maneuver, for had I not managed to grab the drumstick, he would have likely cracked several bones in my hand with the pending whack.

A well-timed snare hit could do untold amounts of damage to my hearing. It could end my career. At the very least it could shorten it significantly. One should NEVER play the drums when the engineer is standing next to him, certainly not without fair warning. This is Recording Etiquette 101. It’s a rule. Perhaps an unwritten rule, until now, but a rule just the same. I, of course, explained all of this to the drummer. I suppose I made some sort of impression upon the guy, because the next time I entered the room, he stopped playing.

Very good, I thought to myself, easily trainable. Still, it was unnecessary for him to stop playing if I walked into harm’s way, but I saved that discussion for another time, as I didn’t want to confuse the issue.

“Thanks for stopping,” I praised, “but I want to hear what the drums sound like in the room, so you can play now.” And he did just that.

For the briefest of moments, I thought that the drummer was actually playing a practical joke on me. I say this because I can only categorize the sounds emanating before me as some of the most god-awful drum sounds I’ve ever heard. Ever! Believe me when I tell you, I’ve heard some awfully bad-sounding drums. I mean, these drum sounds weren’t bad in a cool sort of way. These drum sounds were bad in every way imaginable.

Perhaps it was the drums, I thought to myself, if only to stave off the actual truth of the matter from my fragile brain.

“I think these drums are probably better for playing live,” I said aloud.

This was a standard line that I, and just about every other recordist in the history of the world, uses when a drummer’s kit⁴ sounds like shit. While I generally prefer to be as straightforward as possible with people, this little white lie is sometimes necessary and works far more effectively than copping to the drummer on the first day of a session that his drum set sucks—live or otherwise. Believe me—if the drum set sucks in the studio, it sucks live too.

“What would you think about playing a nice set of rental drums that are designed specifically for recording?” I asked him, as admittedly it is very difficult to stop telling white lies once you’ve started.

The drummer sat there following my inquiry, with nothing more than a blank stare upon his face, as if I had asked him this question in Chinese, which I’m assuming he doesn’t understand. I know I don’t. I considered waving my hand in front of his face, but chose rather to rephrase my question into a statement.

“I think we should probably rent some recording drums,” I stated, a little more slowly this time, as emphatically and with as much conviction as one can muster while using words like _think_ and _probably_.

“Okay,” he snapped quickly with this odd little smile that I could only assume was his best impersonation of Jim Carrey in the movie _Dumb & Dumber_.

By 10:30 a.m. the drums were in the wrong spot, my assistant was anything but assistive, and my confidence over my planned placement of the instruments had been shattered. Oh, joy. A call to the producer was in order.

In our phone conversation, the producer and I discussed a variety of topics germane to the setup for the recording. For the most part, he gave me carte blanche to place the players where I saw fit, so long as the sight lines were good for everyone. We also discussed a few sonic and directional concepts for the record, picked a song to start out with, and broached the subject of the rental budget, which, as it turns out, is quite sizeable.

“Get what we need to keep the session moving, regardless of cost,” the producer said. Sizeable, indeed! Unlimited, more like!

All in all, it was a very positive conversation, until the producer dropped a bomb on me, coming in the form of both confession and request.

“One last thing before you go,” he said. “You might already know this, but Lance is my nephew, and I want him to get some actual hands-on experience recording. If you wouldn’t mind, any time you can let Lance take the reins and get some time behind the console, I’d really appreciate it.”

Great! I thought to myself, as my mind flashed into the future to the record-release party where I was ceremoniously given my copy of the manufactured CD. I imagined myself sipping champagne and guffawing with the band, as I came to find out that there had been one million preorders for the album, an unprecedented event for a new band—hell, an unprecedented event for an established one. We toasted the huge success of a record that wasn’t even for sale yet. Then I watched myself opening up the CD much like Charlie opened up his chocolate bar in search of the golden ticket in _Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory_. I remember being vaguely conscious of the bandmates each nervously and expeditiously excusing themselves from my presence, as I made my move to open the CD. Momentarily ignoring their peculiar exits, I opened the booklet to gaze proudly upon my name as the recordist of such a successful work, only to find in bold print the following text:

_Engineered by Lance Nephew_

_Additional Engineering by Mixerman_

Of course, that particular dream sequence was ludicrous on more than one level. Such an obviously overblown scenario would likely be the least of my problems, as my assistant was supposed to be my ally, watching my back for possible mistakes or potential problems. Not a relation to the producer!

“Sure, no problem,” I gulped.

Despite the distressing news of the nepotism and the fucked-up dream sequence in which I was deprived of a well-earned credit, I had established my needed authority to set up the session as I saw fit. At the moment, this was all the ammunition I needed.

I found Lance and explained to him that I’d had a long conversation with the producer and that I would like to set up the room as I had originally laid out in my fax. Then I asked Lance, as politely as I could possibly phrase such an inquiry, “Are you planning to set up the mics in the near future?”

Without so much as a grunt, he rolled his eyes, picked up my setup sheet, and exited the room as I remained wondering what the fuck he thought his gig was.

By this point in my day, the rental drums had arrived, and I had managed to sample a few of the kits. I finally settled on a vintage Ludwig kit, which seemed the most appropriate for the song we were starting with. The producer had expressed a desire to use a few different drum sounds on this album, so I had the rental company leave a couple of other kits as well. I also kept about ten extra snare drums. It’s very expensive to keep this amount of drums on hand, but I just couldn’t get the phrase “get what we need to keep the session moving, regardless of cost” out of my head.

I asked the drum tech from the rental company to set up the drums in the area that I had originally selected. He obliged and proceeded to fine-tune the drums. Being a seasoned pro, the tech asked my permission to play while I was in the room, which I happily granted. The drums sounded great! I was elated. Relieved, even.

Then the drummer took a turn. He adjusted some positions of the toms and cymbals to his liking, settled into his throne, and unceremoniously commenced playing the drums. My feelings of elation instantly turned to dejection. This drum kit, which I have actually recorded with great success on numerous occasions with drummers of every ilk—a kit which had sounded fantastic just moments prior—now sounded like absolute dog shit.⁵

As I listened to the wretched tones bombard me, I confirmed what I could only have defined prior to that moment as a super-strong suspicion. The drummer sucked.

To be perfectly honest, I should have known this coming in. I think that perhaps I did, but was trying to convince myself otherwise. The drummer didn’t sound very good on the demos. But drums rarely do sound good on demos. I’d seen the band live once, but that was with a different drummer. The fact of the matter is, I didn’t know this drummer. My relationship with the band was with the lead singer and the bass player. I was surprised that they would accept playing with such a lousy drummer.

Regardless of my feelings on the quality of musicianship sitting before me, I resigned myself to setting up the mics, which were still trickling in at a snail’s pace. After some prodding, I finally got Lance to get all the mics in the room, and I proceeded to set them up around the kit.

Aside from the actual instrument in the room, mic placement is probably one of the more important steps to a good recording. Where a mic is placed can make a huge difference in what it picks up. Even what appears by eye to be the tiniest of movements of mic position can cause a dramatic improvement or degradation in sound by ear. In the initial placement of mics, I am merely making an educated guess as to where I think they will sound best. I must go through the listening process in order to determine where they will ultimately end up. To some extent, that’s a hit-or-miss process.

With mics in their initial placement, I had Lance get the drummer behind the kit, as I made my way to the control room, where I had the most mind-numbing communication that I’ve ever experienced with a man. And no, I am not a chauvinist. But if you’re a woman, you must realize by now your propensity toward largely complex and seemingly illogical thought processes, making you capable of inflicting unusually cruel amounts of distress upon the relatively simple mind of a man. Personally, I’d take that as a compliment.

“Play, please,” I said over the talkback, which is much akin to a walkie-talkie, allowing the players in the recording room to hear me when I hit a button.

“What?” the drummer yelled, as if he couldn’t hear me.

“Can you hear me?” I asked. It’s quite possible that he couldn’t hear me, although the talkback volume was way up, and I could hear a momentary feedback, which told me that my voice was probably pretty loud in the room. As if this wasn’t enough to convince me, I recalled having heard Lance communicating earlier to me in this manner.

“YEAH, I CAN HEAR YOU FINE!” he responded, yelling as if I couldn’t hear _him_.

“I want to hear the drums in here. Could you play?”

“What song do you want me to play?” At which point I told him the name of the song that the producer had requested we start with.

“Okay!” he replied. Ten seconds went by.

“Are you going to play?”

“Do you want me to play now?”

“That would be helpful.”

“Which drum do you want me to play?”

“The whole kit!”

“Oh, okay!” He started playing and then stopped after barely a measure went by.

“How long do you want me to play for?” he asked.

“Until I ask you to stop.”

“Okay!”

He started playing again and then stopped after a whole two measures this time.

“What?” he yelled out.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Oh, I thought you yelled to stop.”

“No. I want you to play for a while.”

“Okay!” Ten seconds of absolute silence went by.

“_Play!_” I yelled. The drummer jumped in his seat, and immediately started playing again. As I listened, I realized that he was playing the wrong song.

“Stop!” I yelled in the talkback, but he didn’t stop. “_Stop!_” I yelled louder and closer to the talkback mic. “STOP!!!!!!” I yelled at the top of my lungs directly into the talkback mic.

“What?” he replied with a stupid-assed look on his face.

“Yes, could you play the song we discussed?” I was close to exasperation.

“You want me to play it now?”

No, I want you to play it tomorrow!

“YES!!!”

“Okay!”

These brilliant exchanges went on for the entire day. This guy was easily the dumbest schmuck that I’ve ever had to deal with, and I’ve dealt with some serious idiots. I swear to you this drummer is only one notch above being a retard, and I’ve come to find out through the course of the day that he is the butt of the band’s constant jokes and haranguing. At one point, I began calling him Cotton, and the bass player asked me why I called him that.

“’Cause he’s dumber than cotton,” I said dryly.

I guess he thought that was funny, because he fell off his chair and ran to tell the singer. To me, however, the name Cotton doesn’t really do the drummer justice. Personally, I much prefer what I’ve been calling him out of earshot and between exchanges on the talkback.

Dumb Ass.

After about six hours of changing drums, moving mics, trying out compressors—which are tools that engineers use to even out an overly dynamic volume differential of an instrument—and _anything_ else that I could do to somehow make Dumb Ass’s drums sound acceptable, I finally got a sound that I thought was fairly decent considering what I had to work with.

By this point in the day, the other players had been at the studio for some time, and they had been setting up their instruments and their playing areas. Lance Nephew was on “vibe” detail and had been busy hanging my tapestries, arranging lava lamps, candelabras, candles on plates, string lights, and Magic 8 Balls (of which I have three varieties). He also took it upon himself to place the studio’s wool Oriental throw rugs throughout the room, a service for which I was most grateful. For the moment, Lance was doing what he was supposed to and wasn’t causing me too much grief.

With drum sounds relatively complete, I could focus on the other instruments. I rented a bass head and cab,⁶ because I wasn’t particularly enamored with the rig⁷ the bass player was using. I rented a few guitar amps for the sake of variety, and the producer had several amps of his own that were delivered along with a large assortment of percussion instruments and guitars. I set up a wall of guitar amps in the large iso booth so that the guitar player could plug into a variety of amps, depending on the song. All in all, I would say there were about fifty guitars in the room, some rented, some newly acquired by the guitar player, some belonging to the producer. I rented a few of these big twelve-banger guitar holders, and we got the cases out of the room.

I set up the bass cab (the speakers) in another decent-size iso booth, and placed the bass player’s head (the amplifier) in the room with the drums so that he could stand next to Dumb Ass while they were playing. Bass players usually like to stand near the drummer, as these two instruments supply the groove of a song. I set up large baffles⁸ to cut the players off from the drums and to give the band members their own kind of space. Each player had his own little “Apartment,” or “Living Room” garnished with his choice of furniture, gear, and assorted vibe paraphernalia.

After about ten hours, the room was finally completely set up, the players had been placed, and their instruments were accessible to them. All the empty cases, racks, and extraneous gear were piled up in the hall. The room was beautiful. It was a sight to behold!

I got a bass sound and a few guitar amp sounds. I had mics throughout the room so that I could readily hear each band member, and they could readily hear each other in their headphones. Each Apartment got a set of headphones and small mixers, where each player could set up his own little eight-fader mix for himself (very handy). We ordered dinner, which is a complete story in and of itself that I’ll reserve for another time, and I set up the vibe in the control room.

Post-dinner, we were ready for the producer. So I called him and left a message telling him same. But the producer never made an appearance, even though he had expressed a desire to make some takes tonight. I guess he was too busy.

Not wanting to sit around doing nothing, I had the band play down the first song a couple of times, as I laid it to tape and made a few adjustments. All in all, I’d say the test recording sounded okay, but quite honestly, Dumb Ass really sucks balls as a drummer. He has no feel, no time, no talent, is stupider than fuck, and has an incredible knack for making great drums sound like ass.

Other than that . . .

MixermanDAY 3

Posted: July 31, 11:38 p.m.

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Today, I decided I was going to take _some_ control of my life. It is typical for me to constantly evaluate how I am contributing to the well-being or degradation of a session. By not taking control of the assistant and the studio—and in some respects Dumb Ass—I have come to the self-critical conclusion that I have contributed to the degradation of this session. At the very least, I have not been improving upon the situation and therefore I needed to make a tactical change in how I was handling myself. Of course, not having a producer show up has not helped matters. Still, considering the fact that we haven’t even made a take yet, the damage should be easily rectified.

Take control was the plan of the day. Thus, the name of my plan: Operation Control.

The first thing I did today after drinking a cup of coffee, taking a poo . . . Okay, forget about all that! The first thing I did today was to call the producer and ask him if he’d be coming in today.

“Yeah, man. Definitely. Sorry about the delays. Drama. You know how it is. How’s the PA working out?” he asked.

“It’s fine. I recorded one take with the PA and one without, and you can be the judge.”

“Great, you’re the best! I’ll see you later today.” And with that he hung up the phone.

I wasn’t quite sure how to take “later today.” Regardless, I chose to be optimistic and assume that I would have a producer later today.

Now I needed to implement Operation Control. First up on the agenda was Lance Nephew. Phase One of Operation Control began, unwittingly on my part, last night.

Phase One: Train Lance to be a worthwhile assistant.

At the conclusion of yesterday’s session, ahem, I explained to Lance what I meant when I used the term “start time,” expressing very plainly that if we call the session to start at 10 a.m., then I wanted him there at 9:30 a.m. Among other duties, he was to double-check all the documentation from the day before (he was a bit confused by this one, as he still hasn’t documented one thing); fire up the “tube” equipment,¹ which takes time to warm up; make sure the Apartment environments are neat and clean; organize notes, messages, and receipts; remove obvious trash; and untangle cables, lines, etc. Some of this was being done by the cleaning staff, but Lance was not without his own obligations. I explained to Lance that his job was to help me keep a session running smoothly and quickly, and I asked him if he was going to be able to do this. He assured me that he would.

Lance was only thirty minutes late this morning, which was incredibly encouraging considering that, to date, he has not been less than an hour late. As encouraged as I was, this wasn’t good enough. So I decided that he needed to meet the wrath of me. After all, an important Intelligence Operation cannot always be implemented without the use of some force. In a nutshell, I tore Lance a new asshole—a tactic I reserve for when all else fails.

Lance was shocked, nay, flabbergasted at the way I laid into him. But at least I think he’s starting to get the picture now. No more Mr. Nice Guy! I was either going to have an assistant I can use, or one of us was going to go. At this point, I didn’t care which one of us went—although I was hopeful it wouldn’t come down to that. Lance wasn’t a bad kid by any stretch of the imagination. Phase One would have to remain a work in progress. I moved on to Phase Two.

Phase Two: Put the studio on notice.

I went to the traffic manager’s office, exchanged daily niceties, and allowed Magnolia her mandatory kibitzing time, which I found quite painful as I abhor kibitzing when I’m in the middle of a mission. I then reiterated to her that ours was a “closed session.” Only the band, the producer, Lance, and I were permitted in the room. She agreed to my terms. I also explained to her that I wouldn’t tolerate Lance’s being late any longer, and that I wanted him there before the session started, regardless of nepotistic relationships that may exist. She was noticeably taken aback by my bluntness on this matter. She quickly regained her composure and assured me that it wouldn’t happen again. I was reasonably sure she “got it” now. Phase Two of the plan was complete. Back to Phase One.

I took Lance into the room, grabbed a clipboard with a pad of paper, and demonstrated to Lance how one documents the settings on a guitar amp. I drew a little circle for each of the knobs on the guitar amp, and I drew a line, like the hands of a clock in each of the circles, which indicated where the knob was set on the amp. It was kind of like kindergarten class, but this was an important step in implementing Phase One.

I explained to Lance that on every song, and even every take, if we’re switching instruments and amp settings, he was to write down the guitar that was used, the amp that was used, the settings of the amp, the pickups, tone and volume control settings on the guitar, pedals used with their appropriate settings, mics used, snare drum used, kit used, bass used, head settings, compressor settings, mic pre-gain settings, EQ settings, tempo, etc. I suggested he make some templates and photocopies of those templates, so he didn’t have to constantly redraw the guitar amp knobs every time we changed the settings on the guitar.

I showed Lance how to use a pencil, as opposed to a red Sharpie marker, on a label directly on the two-inch tape ²box, much like the marker that he used to sloppily write what I believe said “Test Drums & Test Drums II”—even _he_ wasn’t quite sure if that’s what it actually said. I explained to him the importance of using details in order to prevent assured confusion later on down the road. I counseled him on the importance of trying to use neatness in his documentation, so that we could read what he had documented at a later date. There is one studio in town that actually runs its future assistant engineers through a course in penmanship. Obviously, this wasn’t that studio. It was then time for Phase Three.

Phase Three: Teach Dumb Ass to play drums like a man.

I took a listen to Test Drums and Test Drums II, as Lance was affixing labels to the two-inch box and writing a novelette on the origins and purpose of each take.

In listening to the takes, I determined that I would need to make some more adjustments with the PA, but more importantly, with Dumb Ass. He hit the toms like a pussy but would whale on the hat³ as if he imagined it was the guy who raped his sister. I gave him the short lesson on hitting his drums and then had him practice while I made my adjustments with the PA.

The sound improved tremendously. The toms were singing in the room a little better. In fact, the drums were starting to sound pretty good overall. I gave him some more encouragement—yes, I _do_ encourage Dumb Ass—and recorded “Test Drums III,” labeled as such by my newly inspired literary scholar of an assistant, with a three-page dissertation written on a label designed for, at most, a sentence or two. (Sigh.) Should I tell Lance he’s gone too far? Or should I just send the runner out to buy a quality magnifying glass on the band’s dime?

Dumb Ass’s drums were actually halfway decent, although the guy has this very odd loping feel. It’s like riding a galloping horse with its push-pull motion. I see Alsihad in my future.

Alsihad (pronounced AL · see · hod) is my own personal name for what is currently the most widely used computer program for recording in the industry. I created my own name for the platform, partially because I don’t think the real name fits the product, and partially because I wouldn’t want to be responsible for even one sale of the product.

For years, albums were recorded to tape. To date, many rock albums are still recorded to tape. But many albums are recorded to computers. In order to record to a computer, one needs both software and hardware aside from the computer itself. The hardware converts sound into the digital format of 1s and 0s. The software is the platform in which an operator can manipulate the sound. Alsihad is both the software and the hardware. Some people in this industry feel that Alsihad sounds fine, and some people in this industry feel that it sounds awful. Some people don’t think it really matters, since all records end up in the digital format of a CD anyway. I’m in the camp that thinks it sounds awful.

Regardless of my feelings on the issue, when a drummer comes in and has such poor timing as is prevalent in Dumb Ass’s playing, Alsihad is typically the first choice to fix the timing anomalies. At that moment, I didn’t see Alsihad in the room, and this was just fine by me.

When the singer and the bass player entered the control room, they immediately noticed the improvements on the drum sound. I requested that they go back in with the guitar player and play down the song, which they readily obliged. It was late afternoon, and the producer still hadn’t made an entrance. As they played down the take, I remember having these unusually insecure thoughts come through my head.

This drummer sucks, regardless of how I improved his tone, I thought to myself. Sure, I’m hearing an improvement, and it actually sounds pretty good to me. But perhaps I’ve lost perspective. Perhaps the tones still suck, but I think it’s okay because of the improvements I’ve made. But what will the producer hear? The producer is under the impression that Dumb Ass is good, and he’s heard Dumb Ass play. But it’s sooooo obvious to me that Dumb Ass is not a good drummer. Will he hear that the drumming is subpar, or will he hear that the drums just don’t sound good? After all, you never can tell with producers. He might not recognize something so painfully obvious. Just because someone is a successful producer doesn’t mean that he has the skills to go with his success. This industry is fraught with people who have no business being near a studio. Would that be the case here? “_Wait a minute!_” I thought to myself, as I snapped from my trance of doubting thoughts.

I was in the midst of Operation Control. I couldn’t allow insecurities to overcome me. I’ve been in this situation countless times before. I _must_ think positively and overcome any obstacles that present themselves. It was useless to worry about the producer’s reaction. I just needed to be prepared to convince him of where the problem lies. Operation Control was about taking control of the situation. Not fear.

With that little episode behind me and with a renewed sense of confidence, I decided to mic up the rest of the guitar amps and get the mics positioned so that I wouldn’t have to move mics every time we switched amps. The more I can avoid moving mics, the faster I can keep the session going. With the rental of several microphones, all of the amps and cabs had their own mics placed in front of them. The guitars were sounding great. I also had two EQ/compressor chains set up, which I named Chain A and Chain B.

As an engineer, two of my tools are equalization (EQ) and compression. When one uses these tools in series, they form what’s called a chain. The entire chain in this case would be the following: the source (the player, the guitar used, and the amplifier used), microphone, mic preamplifier (which amplifies the microphone), EQ, compressor, and tape machine.

The treble and bass boost in your car stereo system is a simple EQ. I use much better and much more powerful EQs in the studio. I can cut or boost just about any frequency in the human range of hearing and beyond with EQ. This allows me to shape the sound of the instrument for the benefit of the recording.

A compressor allows me to reduce the dynamic range. You know the DVD of the movie that you watched at home last night? The one you had to turn up in the soft parts and down in the loud parts? That’s an example of a wide dynamic range. A compressor reduces that dynamic range so that the soft parts are closer in volume to the loud parts. If you strapped a well-set compressor onto the output of your DVD player, you could put your remote control away. I have engineer friends that do just this.

A compressor, however, can alter the sound quality of the source dramatically. Learning which compressor to use, how much compression, and even when to use compression can take years to master, and the selection of which can take years to master and can still be a somewhat hit-or-miss process.

Lance’s job was to document accurately not only the settings of the entire chain, but also the settings of Chain A, while I was recording with Chain B. The reason for this is sometimes we have to go back and fix something later on in the session and for any number of reasons. If I don’t have all the settings in the chain documented, we would have to redo the entire track, rather than a small section of the track.

With my guitar chains in place and Lance prepared to document everything, I was ready to go. Unfortunately, something, or shall I say someone, was missing.

The evening went pretty much as the previous evenings had—some dinner, some billiards, some foosball, some resting, and yes, some clandestine diary writing. I took the measure of calling the producer and leaving a message telling him we were 100 percent ready for him. The way I figured it, he might have been waiting for this information before he planned to make an appearance. But much to my chagrin, he didn’t call back, he didn’t come by. Nothing.

I was half tempted to start making takes, but thought better of it, as I couldn’t be sure what the reaction to such a course might be. The band doesn’t seem to mind too much at this point. They’re happy to be in the studio: They were signed two years ago, and the record company has had them writing the entire time. They were just happy to finally be ready to make an album. Plus, as far as the band was concerned, we _have_ been working the entire time. They are extremely happy with the tones. I’m getting along _very_ well with everyone, even Dumb Ass, regardless of my disdain for him. So that’s positive. In fact, all in all, it was a very positive day—mostly because I got back control of my session. I would venture to say that my first two days are a good reminder for all of us, regardless of our professions: We must run our sessions and not let our sessions run us.

With lesson in tow, all I needed now was our esteemed producer, who I have decided will no longer be referred to as “the producer,” as I’ve named him for the purposes of this journal. His name henceforward?

Willy Show.

Mixerman