Making Records: The Scenes Behind the Music (2 page)

Al, Hank, and I scramble to rearrange the studio and build a small platform between the two rooms. On it we place a chair, small teleprompter, and two monitor speakers so Frank will be able to hear the rhythm section and strings. While we’d originally hung three mikes in the vocal booth, we now place a single boom-mounted microphone on the stage.

For insurance, we prepare a wireless hand mike like the one Frank uses on stage for live performances. Al is apprehensive about using the handheld microphone. “It’s a stage mike, Phil—and it’s wireless.” His concern is understandable. As anyone who has used a cell phone knows, wireless equipment can cut out while you’re using it, and it’s prone to radio-wave interference. I consider the risks and rewards. “We’ve got to move forward,” I say. “I don’t care what kind of microphone he sings into, he’s still
Frank Sinatra
.”

Drained, I go to my hotel. I barely sleep.

The next night Sinatra shows up at seven, this time wearing a nice jogging suit. He looks tired. Is he as nervous about the sessions as we are?

There’s some small talk. Frank sips a bit of water and picks up the hand mike. He tries a tune.

Then, strike two.

Without fanfare, Frank quietly announces that he’s not feeling well. “The reed’s not working,” he explains, tapping his Adam’s apple. “Sore throat. I’m going home to rest. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” He leaves, and disappointment turns to fear.

We’re far from the finish line, and there’s nothing to do but wait. If the sessions don’t work out, it’s not for a lack of trying, I remind myself. There are no guarantees when you embark on a project like this; there are many risks, and the artist, producer, and record label share responsibility for those risks.

“We’ve set the stage for something extraordinary, and I still feel that this will work,” I tell everyone before leaving. “Get some rest—I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

The next day, Hank and I arrive at Capitol early to test the equipment. The musicians have rehearsed so much they’ve practically memorized their parts. Despite this, we hold a two o’clock rehearsal.

At four, the calls to the studio begin. “He’s dressed and preparing for the session,” comes the report from Beverly Hills. A few hours later, a second call from the car: “We’re on Hollywood Boulevard—he’ll be there in a few minutes.” Suddenly, Frank—wearing an immaculately tailored business suit and tie—breezes into the studio, looking rested and years younger than the previous two nights.

Again, pleasantries are exchanged as Frank makes his way into the studio. I say a silent prayer, and escort him to the platform where he’ll sing. In that moment, something that I’ve rarely seen before happens: although fifty-five seasoned musicians are preparing to play, there’s a disconcerting silence in the room. A hundred and ten eyes follow as Frank and I traverse the floor. When we get to his spot on the stage, he turns to me.

I turn to walk toward the booth when Sinatra—sotto voce—offers a final thought:

“It better be.”

I signal the control room to roll tape, and two recorders—a forty-eight-track digital and a twenty-four-track analog backup—are started. I look out and give Patrick the thumbs-up. He kicks off the band, and the booth is filled with the buoyant sound of the first song’s sweeping introduction. Then, the rich, burnished tone of the most familiar singing voice in the world:

When Frank’s first notes boom from the monitors, huge grins break out in the booth. The voice is clear, confident, and commanding. Sinatra is still
Sinatra
. He’s in the studio, and he’s swinging. The
Duets
album is finally under way.

By the end of “Come Fly with Me,” I know that we’ve got one solid take in the bank. I rewind the tape and play it back. Frank beams, and without missing a beat asks, “What’s next?” Before we
can get the tapes rolling, the band launches into the opening of the next song, catching everyone off guard. I make a mad dash for the tape machines.
“Get those tapes going!”
I shout.

From here on out it’s one song after another, for nearly five hours, until we have nine songs in the can.

After the first few numbers I see some of the brass players pointing to their mouths. Their lips are tired. “Let’s take a break,” I suggest. “How long?” Sinatra asks.

“Ten minutes.”

“Give ’em five,” he jokes.

We come back from the break, and Frank offers a glimpse of the intuitive sense that has made him a studio legend. As the band starts the intro to “A Foggy Day,” he motions for them to stop. “The tempo’s a shade too bright, and there’s a problem in the woodwinds,” he proclaims.

Patrick scans the chart, consults with the musicians, and discovers that Frank is right. He makes the correction, and says, “Okay—we’ve got it.” Without another word, Sinatra gently taps a finger on his leg to define the tempo. The gesture is barely visible—so subtle that Patrick strains to see Sinatra’s hand. This time, the tempo is right where it belongs, and the mistake in the woodwind part is nowhere to be found.

Once Frank has settled into a groove and everyone has relaxed, I sit back and absorb the energy coming from the studio. I feel a glow, realizing that my dream for one last Sinatra album is finally coming true. As I tap my foot to the beat of the music, Al Schmitt looks at me inquisitively, the strain of the week evident on his face. He cocks his head. “Why do you do this?” he asks. “Why do you put yourself under this kind of pressure?”

It’s a fair question, and gazing out at the studio I think about it.

We’re at Capitol Records in Hollywood, recording Frank Sinatra. The walls in this studio have absorbed as much seminal music as any place on Earth. The singer and the songs being sung have been
part of my life since I was a child. The performances are uplifting and invigorating.

Has it been stressful? You bet. But whether it was playing the violin, mixing a record, or working as a producer, I’ve lived my life for moments like this. “He’s the reason I’m here,” I say, nodding toward the studio. “He’s what makes it all worthwhile.”

Artists and their music are my lifeblood—my reason for being. While projects like
Duets
are challenging, the pressure, risks, and rewards are all part of making records. And, there’s nothing in the world I’d rather do.

With Terry Woodson and Al Schmitt, Sinatra
Duets
session, 1993
Phil Ramone Collection

I’m not a screamer.

I’ve seen producers yell, badger, bully, and throw tantrums to get results, but that approach has never worked for me.

Recently, an artist with whom I was working for the first time amused me by expressing surprise at the tranquility of our inaugural session. “I was expecting all kinds of gestures and running and stamping,” she said. “Yet, you direct so quietly.”

As she spoke, I wondered what had shaped her image of a producer. “It’s not about hysterics,” I explained. “What’s important is for you and I to communicate, and for me to calmly relay information and directions to the people that we’re collaborating with.”

During the drive home, it dawned on me that if a seasoned performer was confused about the role of the producer, then the general public probably was, too. Why don’t more people understand who the record producer is, and what he or she is supposed to do? I thought.

To help explain how the producer influences what we hear, I’ll answer some of the questions I’m frequently asked about record producers and their role in the recording process.

The record producer is the music world’s equivalent of a film director. But, unlike a director (who is visible, and often a celebrity in his own right), the record producer toils in anonymity. We ply our craft deep into the night, behind locked doors. And with few exceptions, the fruit of our labor is seldom launched with the glitzy fanfare of a Hollywood premiere.

Just as a successful film director helps to inspire an actor and draw out an exquisite performance, the producer serves as an objective filter and helps the artist bring life to their records. As a producer, my primary goals are to create a stimulating environment, help the artist develop their ideas, and ensure that the performance is recorded and mixed properly.

There are three basic parts to making a record, and the producer is directly involved in each of them:

• 1.
  Recording
  —the “session” when the music is played and recorded
  
• 2.
  Mixing
  —when all of the individual sections recorded at the session (or sessions) are blended together
  
• 3.
  Mastering
  —when the final sound is tweaked and polished
  

But there’s much more to making a record than recording, mixing, and mastering. There are dozens of things that happen behind the scenes before one note is played or sung. The artist has to write or choose the songs, and orchestrations must be written. Studio time must be scheduled, an engineer chosen, and a budget developed. A producer deals with all of these issues.

But the responsibilities don’t end there.

What happens when an artist asks you to pull together a band at the last minute? Or when, in the middle of a session, the electrical system plunges the studio into darkness? Or, a creative block
affects the deadline on a record the label has been hounding you for?

Someone’s got to think fast and move things ahead, and those tasks fall to the producer. Because he or she is involved in nearly every aspect of a production, the producer serves as friend, cheerleader, psychologist, taskmaster, court jester, troubleshooter, secretary, traffic cop, judge, and jury rolled into one.

Through the years, the role of the producer and their relationships with artists has changed dramatically.

Forty years ago, singers and musicians who were intimately involved in the creation of their records (such as Frank Sinatra and Brian Wilson) were exceptions. Most artists would come to a session and sing whatever their record company’s staff producer put in front of them. Artists & repertoire executives at the record labels crafted every facet of an artist’s work, from their look to their sound.

Today, artists are extremely independent—and more involved in the production of their music than ever before. Many performers have formal musical training, and in addition to writing and orchestrating their own songs, immerse themselves in the process of recording them. More often than not, singers and musicians have small home- or computer-based studio setups that they use for rehearsing, making demos, and at times producing their own records.

So, why do even the brightest artists seek the services of a producer when they can do it all themselves? For the experience and objectivity a record producer brings to a project.

It can be daunting for a performer—especially a singer-songwriter—to edit their own work, and that’s when the services of a producer can be extremely useful. As Elton John recently explained, “A producer knows when a song should be changed or a vocal isn’t good, because he isn’t as close to it as the artist is. The knowledge and experience that a producer brings to the control room when a musician is playing and singing on the other side of the glass is very reassuring.”

While it’s professional, the bond between an artist and their producer is personal and complex, too.

A producer can be closer to the artist than anyone else in his or her life during the weeks or months they spend together making a record. The intimacy they share is largely unspoken; it touches raw nerves, and if the producer is especially good at what he does, helps peel back the anxiety and fear that dwells within every performer.

An artist’s anxieties and fears are, by the way, very real. They’re normal, too. Although the best performers make it seem effortless, putting oneself in front of an audience, TV or motion picture camera, or recording studio microphone requires extraordinary confidence. The normal insecurities that most of us experience from time to time are magnified a hundredfold for an artist who is making a record or rehearsing a show, and I’ve spent countless hours reassuring artists during late-night telephone conversations—much to the consternation of my wife, I’m sure.

But the investment of such intense, heart-to-heart time usually results in a handsome creative payoff.

I’ve had times when I’ve called an artist at two in the morning and said, “I hate to wake you, but I’m driving in my car and I’ve been thinking about what we’re having trouble with. Maybe you should come and meet me right now. I’ve made a few notes…”

When you spend a lot of time in the studio, you savor the times when things go well. If we’ve had smooth sailing one day, and things seem to be dragging the next, I’ll turn to the artist and say, “Remember last night? It was so cool. Why doesn’t that happen every day?”

The most successful artist-producer relationships are based on honesty and trust, and respecting the trust and confidence of the performers I work with has always been my top priority.

Of all the artists I’ve known, few appreciate a producer’s honesty and trust more than Barbra Streisand.

I first met Barbra at a political event in Washington, D.C., in 1963. She was twenty-two years old, and already a star. Like most, I was impressed with the tonal quality and range of Barbra’s voice, and the stunning way she performed.

By mid-’63, Barbra had made major appearances on
The Tonight Show
(with both Jack Paar and Johnny Carson),
The Ed Sullivan Show,
and
The Judy Garland Show.
She had recorded two albums for Columbia Records: the Grammy-winning
The Barbra Streisand Album,
and
The Second Barbra Streisand Album
; both records went gold. Barbra’s coup de grace, though, was her showstopping performance as Miss Marmelstein in Broadway’s
I Can Get It for You Wholesale.

That was just the beginning.

In early 1964, Barbra was again on Broadway, this time winning acclaim for her portrayal of Fanny Brice in
Funny Girl
. With the show came two quintessential Streisand classics: “Don’t Rain on My Parade,” and “People.”

With Barbra Streisand, circa 1985
Phil Ramone Collection

The first time Barbra and I worked together was 1967, when I designed the sound system for her groundbreaking Central Park concert. Knowing my penchant for tackling complicated projects, she called on me again in 1975 to ask if I would supervise the
recording of
A Star Is Born
in Hollywood. Our collaboration on that film illustrates the value of mutual trust and the importance of an artist and producer trusting their own instincts.

In the Hollywood film studios, every production is scripted before work on a picture begins. If the film is a musical, all of the vocal and instrumental parts are recorded before the actors shoot their scenes. The actors then lip-synch to those tracks when filming a scene where singing is involved. The dialogue, music, and sound effects will all be mixed in postproduction to create the final soundtrack.

The challenge with
A Star Is Born
was that Barbra wanted to break tradition and record all of the film’s music live, as each scene was being performed. Why did she want to do this?

Anyone who’s familiar with Barbra’s work knows that she feels and interprets a song differently each time she sings it. Capturing every nuance of her voice—and her look while singing—was essential to authentically conveying the premise of
A Star Is Born
. Barbra knew that prerecording days or months before shooting began would compromise the spontaneity of her performance.

Recording audio in sync with film intrigued me. But, since almost everything was being shot on location, recording this way required painstaking organization. Once you leave the confines of the soundstage you’re at the mercy of the less-than-perfect acoustics and ambient noise of whatever area you’re working in; the controls that help insure consistency are lost.

To accommodate our needs on
A Star Is Born
, I rented a mobile recording truck from Enactron in Canada, outfitting it with a small vocal booth so Barbra could make vocal corrections on the spot. Knowing that she’d want to see her performances immediately after shooting them, I also arranged for the crew to run a video camera alongside the master film camera.

In the film, Barbra plays a singer (Esther Hoffman) who falls in love with rock star John Norman Howard (Kris Kristofferson). As
the plot develops, Howard’s wild partying causes his career to crash, while Esther’s begins to soar.

Our first test was filming a nightclub scene at a small club in Pasadena.

All of the action—including a fight scene between John Norman Howard and a club patron—occurred in real time, meaning it wasn’t patched together from multiple takes. Recording it live as it happened—Barbra singing while two men argued and fought in front of her—was surreal. We felt confident that what we’d captured would quell the uneasiness of the executives at Warner Bros.

When the studio bosses saw the footage the next day, they applauded. While they marveled at our success and approved the concept of recording live-to-film, they insisted that Barbra prerecord everything too—for insurance.

Much of the film was shot on location in Arizona, and a setting for one of the movie’s key scenes, a rock concert, was Arizona State University’s Sun Devil Stadium. Instead of mocking up the set and using extras for the audience shots, film producer Jon Peters hired legendary concert promoter Bill Graham to stage a genuine rock-and-roll fest featuring five acts, including Peter Frampton and Carlos Santana.

The audience consisted of students and others from the surrounding area, each of whom paid $3.50 for admission. The plan was for each of the rock groups to play their sets, with Barbra and Kris Kristofferson filming their songs in between.

Bill Graham was a savvy stage producer, and he paced the show brilliantly. He also covered all of the ancillary bases. He knew that at large-scale events kids get sick, people become overheated, and drugs are consumed. To minimize problems, he set up medical stations, placed showers along the sidelines, and warned the audience about the possibility of some bad acid being passed around.

At midnight, a crowd of university students began streaming into the stadium. The weather was perfect; at dawn I played the Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun,” and the patrons—anticipating an eventful day—cheered.

By seven a.m., the first band—the L.A. Jets—hit the stage and juiced everyone up. Then came Graham Central Station. Around nine, Barbra appeared and kibitzed with the crowd. “We’re gonna rock and roll today,” she yelled. “And we’re gonna be in a movie!”

Barbra wanted the audience to understand the technicalities behind filmmaking, so she sang “The Way We Were” to a taped instrumental track. “That’s the way it’s usually done in Hollywood,” she said. “But I don’t want to lip-synch—I want to sing live, to you.” She proceeded by belting out an electrifying version of “Woman in the Moon,” backed by her band.

When it came time to shoot Barbra’s first scene, the crew was nervous. Could recording everything live work in this situation? Would the audience behave, despite the long hours and the heat? Would we get the sound and picture quality we needed? The set was prepared; the audience in place; the crew ready to roll.

Everyone was intensely focused. Some of us were on pins and needles, knowing that singing in front of large crowds wasn’t easy for Barbra. We watched carefully for last-minute jitters. We needn’t have worried; the performance of “Woman in the Moon” she gave for the cameras was a triumph.