Making Records: The Scenes Behind the Music (9 page)

Dealing with tantrums or other temperament issues—whether it involves an artist, musician, or member of my crew—isn’t pleasant, and handling them sensitively is the secret to turning them around. While there’s no specific technique I use to restore tranquility, speaking calmly and letting the other party know how I feel is always the starting point. Then, I probe to find out why they’re frustrated.

If the issue concerns one of the assistants or engineers in the control room, I advise them to take a break, and not return until they feel they can maintain their composure and focus on the job at hand. I simply can’t allow anyone to disrupt a session or distract the artist while they’re working on the other side of the glass.

If an artist has an eruption, everything stops. I clear the control room so as to give them space and avoid embarrassment, and then sit with them to figure out what’s wrong.

Is it the material that’s bothering them, or the way it’s coming to life? Are they unhappy with their voice? Are they physically uncomfortable? Is a certain player getting under their skin? Has someone inadvertently said something to offend them?

One of the most awkward moments I’ve ever had in the studio came during a session with actress Jodie Foster, who was doing some recording for the TV movie
Svengali
. It happened not long after John Hinckley—a deranged fan who was infatuated with Foster—shot President Ronald Reagan and bragged that he had done it to get the actress’s attention.

At the start of our session, Jodie walked into the studio just as the engineers were testing the mikes. The drummer—in an isolated booth—didn’t think anyone could hear him talking to another musician. “She [Foster] is alright, but I wouldn’t shoot a president over her,” he casually said. Because the microphones were open, everyone in the studio—including Ms. Foster—heard it loud and, unfortunately,
clear
.

My jaw dropped as the drummer’s voice echoed in the control
room. This is one of those awkward moments when you’d rather do anything than have to walk out into the studio to face the artist. How are we going to get through the next three to five hours? I thought. What happens when it’s time to introduce the musicians to Jodie and I get to the drummer?

In this instance, the artist had the grace and dignity to act as though she hadn’t heard the comment, but all of us—the drummer especially—were mortified. I had to do something, so I used humor to help smooth it over. When I introduced the drummer to Jodie a bit later, I began by saying, “Out of the mouths of drummers come—
drumsticks
.” It was the best line I could think of under the circumstances, and fortunately, it helped us move on.

I knew that the drummer didn’t intentionally offend our guest; often, comments such as his stem from nervousness.

Session players, nightclub performers, and pit musicians are a special breed. They live fast-paced lives filled with tremendous pressure. The top musicians must be more than proficient, and able to perform on demand. Playing a piece of music you’ve only run through once or twice—and making it sound as though you’ve been playing it with the other men and women in the orchestra for years—is far more difficult than it looks.

I rarely have problems with musicians, but every once in a while I’ll come across a player who’s full of him- or herself. When I do, I remind them of something that Quincy Jones said to Bruce Springsteen, Michael Jackson, Stevie Wonder, Cyndi Lauper, Bob Dylan, and a couple of dozen other stars when he produced “We Are the World” in 1984: “Check your ego at the door.”

What can the producer do about an obstinate player? Get rid of him, as I once did with a violinist on a Paul McCartney date.

It was 1970, and Paul was recording
Ram,
his second solo album. He’d come to Studio A1 at A&R on Seventh Avenue to record string overdubs for “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey.” When I first
called the contractor to book the musicians, I specifically requested an all-star orchestra. “Fill it out with as many concertmasters as you can find,” I instructed.

On the morning of the first session, I discovered that we had no conductor. Uh-oh, I thought. This could be a problem.

As a musician, I appreciated the skills of a competent conductor. The fact is, while the audience may believe that every member of the orchestra is in sync and playing off of each other, the appearance is deceiving. The reality is that once you’re sitting among your fellow players, it’s nearly impossible to hear what anyone else—let alone yourself—is playing. The conductor, however theatrical his or her appearance might seem, is really the glue that holds the orchestra together.

At the first
Ram
string overdub session, the lack of direction caused by the absentee conductor was telling. “Why don’t
you
conduct?” I suggested to Paul. “I’m not trained,” he replied. “You’re Paul McCartney!” I shot back. “You wrote the song. Who would know better than you how to conduct it?” He accepted the challenge.

When Paul and I spoke about what he wanted to accomplish with the string overdubs, I wasn’t sure how much time we’d need so I booked a “double” session—a situation that then, as now, earns the musicians handsome dividends. Then, I told everyone who came through the door that there was the distinct possibility that we’d go
beyond
the double session. Even handsomer dividends!

Everyone was okay with the long but lucrative workday, except one lone violinist who ignored the possibility of a triple session and booked himself for another job at five thirty. He then pestered me all afternoon. “Will we be done by five? Do you think we’ll be going into overtime? I have another date to get to.” I dreaded taking a break, knowing the musician would besiege me.

When I had a minute I ducked into the bathroom, where I
found Paul washing his hands. The player’s anxiety was driving Paul batty, too. “That guy is really distracting,” he said. “Can we make do with thirty-nine strings?”

I apologized to Paul for the man’s rudeness, and quietly asked the offending player to leave. Despite my discretion, the word soon spread:
“Ramone has a reputation for being tough on fiddle players!”

People say I spoil my artists, and it’s true.

I coddle and cajole them, and constantly reassure them that they’re the focus of what we’re doing every step of the way.

I’ll do almost anything to please a client: bring in comfortable furniture, put up special lighting, make sure that we have yellow jelly beans, or brown M&Ms. Indulging an artist’s fancy is a sound investment in the final product. Giving the artist every opportunity to put him- or herself in the right place mentally is extremely important.

At some point during the first couple of meetings, I’ll ask questions to ascertain the artist’s preferences.

How (and where) do they like to rehearse?

Formulating a schedule for rehearsals is vital, and when it comes to rehearsing, everyone has a different style.

Frank Sinatra rehearsed in private. He preferred to set his vocal keys with his pianist in advance, and then stand next to the orchestra to hum or sing softly as they ran down the chart for him moments before he recorded it.

Bob Dylan didn’t rehearse before he came in to make
Blood on the Tracks
. His rehearsals were the actual studio sessions.

Peter, Paul and Mary were musical architects who designed sound, shaped songs, and disseminated messages that resonate as powerfully today as when they stood at the center of the folk music world in the late 1960s. They rehearsed face-to-face for hours on end until every note of every song blended seamlessly. Then, they’d obsess over it again when they got to the studio.

When Barbra Streisand runs through songs for a new album, she’ll usually ask an arranger/pianist such as Dave Grusin or Mike Melvoin to come to her house, where they’ll work together at the piano. Songwriters Alan and Marilyn Bergman will often attend too. Barbra has a hundred suggestions for melodic counter lines, tempo, and instrumentation, so I record every second of her rehearsals whenever we collaborate.

Because a lone piano can’t impart the depth of an arrangement, I’ll sometimes recommend that the artist rehearse in the recording studio, where we can have a synthesizer play the string lines and other parts. Hearing a fuller sound offers a better idea of how the music will sound with an orchestra and gives the artist the freedom to make changes before the session.

Choosing the right setting is important for two reasons: comfort, and sound.

A productive rehearsal should be inviting—and private. If you were a singer or musician, would you rather rehearse in a gym with fluorescent lighting and harsh, reflective floors or in an air-conditioned room that makes you feel at home?

I like to put the “No Visitors” rule into effect for rehearsals, because once the friends and assistants start popping in, the negative
temperament invariably comes out. And since I usually record the rehearsal, it keeps things quiet, too.

At what time does the artist prefer to work?

Some singers think their voice sounds better during the day, while others feel it’s more open at night. It makes no difference to me what time we work; I’ll show up at two o’clock in the morning if it makes an artist happy. Knowing that he or she prefers to work between midnight and eight o’clock in the morning is necessary, because I’ll need a crew that’s used to staying late and working long hours.

Would the artist rather “track” (sing to a prerecorded instrumental), or record their vocal “on the floor” (live in the studio with a rhythm section)? Should we consider doing an old-school session, with everyone—the rhythm section, brass, strings, and singer—all performing at once?

This question speaks to the biggest difference between the way records were made when I started out in the business and the way they’re made today.

The days of recording a vocalist and big band or orchestra together in the same room began waning when isolation and multitrack recording entered the picture in the late 1960s. By the 1990s, truly “live” studio recording was all but unheard of. Perfectionism has become part of the recording arts, and vocalists and musicians are eager to embrace the tools that allow them to make better records. A producer has nothing to gain and everything to lose if he stands on ceremony and allows a musician to walk away feeling that he hasn’t given a record his very best.

I recently did a session with Etta James, and after Etta finished singing, the guitar player came up to me. “May I redo a line or two on my part? After hearing the vocal I thought of something that would sound better against what Etta sang,” he asked. I was more than willing to help. All I had to do was put him back in the studio, play back the song, and punch in (rerecord) his guitar track at the point where he wanted to make the correction.

Occasionally, an artist’s request will surprise me.

Before one of our many sessions together, Natalie Cole asked if she could sing out in the studio with the band surrounding her, the way she saw her dad record when she was young. “Would you mind if I did that?” Natalie asked. “Would I mind?” I replied. “You’re the artist—of course you can sing out there!”

Everything boils down to assessing each artist’s comfort level and determining how I can help them relax in the recording environment.

When Tony Bennett and I were discussing the upcoming sessions for
Playin’ with My Friends: Bennett Sings the Blues
in 2001, he told me that he felt restricted by the stationary microphone he’d been forced to use at most of his vocal sessions. “I can take care of that,” I said.

To make Tony feel at ease, I arranged the studio as if he were giving an intimate concert, and set him up with a handheld mike. After the session, he thanked me. “You know, for more than fifty years I’ve made records in some of the best studios in the world, and no one ever let me sing on a hand mike and made me feel so comfortable.”

Trading glasses with Bono, 2003
Phil Ramone Collection

Bono used a handheld mike—and stood on a couch in the control room—when he overdubbed his part on “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” for Frank Sinatra’s
Duets
. We were in the small but tastefully appointed room at STS Studios in Dublin where U2 had made most of their records, and Bono wanted to be as spiritually close to Frank as he possibly could. He wanted volume, and I cranked the monitors up until they were
frighteningly
loud.

Several years later, when Bono taped his bluesy solo rendition of Sinatra’s “That’s Life” for the film
The Good Thief
at Right Track Studios (now Legacy Recording) in New York, he did virtually the same thing.

When he arrived, Bono saw that the studio had been stocked with all sorts of food and beverages. He peeked in, shook his head, and shocked the film’s producer by coming back into the control room and saying, “Phil, I think I’d rather sit next to you and track it right here at the board.” He plopped down in the chair beside me, asked for a handheld mike, put his feet up on the console, and sang his ass off.

Bono later explained why he’d chosen to do it this way. “The scene in the film is gritty—the character is out on the street. Standing in the studio isn’t something I could imagine the character doing—it just didn’t seem like the best way for me to find the character’s voice.” To me, Bono’s reasoning made perfect sense.

There are times, though, when having an artist record in a way that they’re unaccustomed can bring vibrancy to a record.

When Danny Bennett proposed doing a duets record for Tony’s eightieth birthday in 2006, we invited everyone to sing live, face-to-face with Tony and the rhythm section. For some (Bono, James Taylor, Billy Joel, Paul McCartney, and Elvis Costello) it was tradition; for others (such as the Dixie Chicks, Juanes, and Michael Bublé) it was a brand-new experience.

“I was surprised when several of the artists commented that they had never made any of their records live in the studio,” Tony
remarked. “Back in the day, you had to have a song memorized. You had one full take—maybe two or three—to make the cut. When the Dixie Chicks came in to record ‘Lullaby of Broadway’ with me, I couldn’t believe that they had never sung a swing tune, or that they had never recorded the way I do. Afterward, they said they loved it! Maybe I turned a few kids on to the ‘old’ way of making music.”

Michael Bublé—a student of Sinatra and Bennett—knew that Frank and Tony recorded live; he came to the studio expecting that he and Tony would cut their vocal to a prerecorded track. “When I arrived, I saw Tony standing there,” Bublé explained. “But I also saw the musicians setting up in the other room. I looked at Tony and asked, ‘Is there another session going on?’ He looked at me and said, ‘No—they’re here for you and me!’”

Although Michael has had tremendous success with his own albums, he was like a kid in a toy shop. He kept saying, “This can’t be real. I’m recording with Tony Bennett. Am I done yet? Tell me it’s not over!” He and Tony did only a few takes; when they were finished I said, “There’s your moment, Michael. It’s now a part of your history.”

“We entered Tony’s world when we entered the studio,” explained Elvis Costello. “He has this way of making you feel relaxed—totally like yourself. He’s so comfortable with the material—even when it’s a tune like ‘Are You Havin’ Any Fun,’ which is what we sang together. Tony is very serious about respecting a songwriter’s intentions: He’ll let you take a few liberties with a song, but not many. All of these things rub off on you so that your game is pulled up to his level—without you even realizing it.

“I have rarely approached recording any other way,” Costello continued. “But I was really surprised that many of the other artists had never recorded live in the studio—with the musicians right there in the room. They were not used to working without a net.”

The examples cited above deal with the technical aspects of recording. But what does a producer do if the artist is
physically
uncomfortable in the studio?

I’ve turned off the lights and let vocalists face the corner of the room when they’re singing, and I’ve set up microphones in the control room so they could stand behind me if they were intimidated by the immensity of the vacant studio.

To help Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel find the right mood when they tracked their vocals for “My Little Town,” I put blue gels over the lights in Studio A at 799 Seventh Avenue so that all you could see was their silhouette in the room: two friends singing side by side into their microphones. It was eerie, but the atmosphere mirrored the subtle darkness of the song.

Some discomforts, though, aren’t as easily alleviated as others.

Not long ago, I did a session with singer Melissa Errico and composer-arranger Michel Legrand. At the time, Melissa was pregnant. She had some very high notes to reach for, and I could tell that something was wrong. Melissa didn’t say anything at first, but her body language screamed,
“I just want to be anywhere but in front of this microphone!”

When we took a break and I asked about how she was feeling, Melissa started to cry. She simply couldn’t get comfortable. “It’s not fair to me, it’s not fair to the baby…” she said. “Listen, you don’t have to do this right now—it can wait until after the baby arrives,” I reminded her. “Why don’t you go home and relax? Come back when you’re ready. We’ll figure something out.”

The solution was to make the setting more inviting, and the fifteen or so hours between sessions made a huge difference. When she came in the next day, we lowered the lights in the studio, repositioned the microphone, lit some candles, and put a big pillow against a ladder so Melissa could lean back and take the pressure off her diaphragm when she sang. I’ll never forget how Melissa, who is a wonderful cook, brought in homemade vegetable soup, which made us all feel cozy and warm. Instead of tackling the numbers that required tremendous effort, Melissa started off by singing some easier tunes. Because of the inviting atmosphere, she was relaxed, and that
helped her work through some very taxing material. I’m pleased to report that despite the session’s tenuous start, Melissa, baby Victoria, and record are all doing fine.

While Melissa Errico’s situation was serious, there have been many lighthearted moments when fulfilling an artist’s wishes has been downright fun.

Most creative folks have eccentricities that others simply don’t appreciate. Engineers, producers, musicians, and singers all have a ritual or lucky object that they swear affects their work. I’ve succumbed to the lure of placing faith in a talisman or two myself (usually an article of clothing), so I understand where they are coming from.

Dionne Warwick would never go for a take unless she’d smoked a cigarette, followed by a Luden’s wild cherry cough drop. “Here’s a drop for my voice,” she’d say. I used to joke with her about it. “Let me get this formula straight: you ravage your throat with cigarette smoke, and
then
soothe it with a cough drop?”

One of the most memorable nights of my life was spent with French chanteuse Patricia Kaas. She called me one night and said, “Do you know the song where I want to sound sultry? I need for you to drink and smoke with me until four or five in the morning before we record it.”