Making Records: The Scenes Behind the Music (19 page)

A funny phenomenon happens when you take a break and somebody hears what I call a “through-the-door mix.” Music
sounds different when the speakers aren’t in your face and you’re not concentrating so hard. I can’t count the number of times an artist came walking down the hall, happened to overhear something that the engineer and I were doing in the other room, and said, “Jeez, what was I thinking? Let’s fix that,” or “That could be great if we changed one little thing.” Hearing the music casually gives you another perspective—one that you wouldn’t necessarily notice or enjoy if you were outside of the studio, eating in a restaurant.

I discovered early on that food was a valuable incentive for the guys in Billy’s band, and when necessary, I’d hold it over their heads.

The hands-down favorite among band members was Chinese food, and our debates over which take sounded best—the pre–or post–Chinese food take—are legendary.

Here’s how it worked:

When everyone started getting hungry, the band’s energy level would drop and the session would come to a halt. They’d pile into the control room, and we’d order in Chinese. Then, I’d send them back out into the studio to continue doing takes until the food arrived.

After a half hour or so, the deliveryman would come in and put the bags of food down on the counter in the control room. When they saw the deliveryman through the window, the guys would start salivating. I’d open the door between the control room and the studio to allow the aroma of the Chinese food to waft into the other room. When they had finished the take, everybody would come in to eat. They would scarf their food, and before they got too comfortable, I’d shoo them back out into the studio. “Okay—go back out there and do it again.”

Everyone would grumble, but they’d go out and pick up where they’d left off. Many songs—“Honesty,” for instance—sounded better
after
everyone had eaten. The food slowed their metabolism and curbed their aggression, which is exactly what the tempo of certain songs needed.

As Richie Cannata remembers:

“We especially loved ribs, and wonton soup. There would always be some sort of fried rice, too—probably a ‘Phil Ramone Special’ that the local Chinese takeout place had on the menu, because he ordered it so frequently. The whole Chinese food thing sounds casual, but after a while I realized that everything Phil did was calculated. He had a plan, and he held us to it.”

As Cannata also recalls, there was one memorable time when we
did
go out to eat, and someone at Columbia Records decided to hold an impromptu shoot for the back cover photo of
The Stranger:

“We were planning to have dinner at the Supreme Macaroni Company on Ninth Avenue and someone said, ‘Let’s take some pictures for the cover of the album.’ It was spontaneous: no makeup, hairstylists, or fashion consultants. All of us wore exactly what we’d worn to the studio that day. After they took the pictures, we sat down and ate. It was all great fun; for a long time, the restaurant kept copies of the photos on the wall of the back room.”

In addition to food, humor helped elicit cooperation.

Getting the band to show up on time was a real pain in the ass. I walked a fine line on this one: I couldn’t allow them to take advantage of Billy and me, nor could I let them waste precious studio time. But I couldn’t piss them off, either.

To keep a check on their tardiness, we agreed on a penalty system in which I would arbitrarily levy fines based on the severity of the tardiness and the originality of their excuse. It was all in good fun.

Here are a couple of their cockamamie stories:

Everyone knew that Liberty had forged the note; I imposed a five-dollar penalty for creativity alone.

Russell’s was one of the most ridiculous stories I’d ever heard. “What? You couldn’t call me collect?” I asked. “That’ll be ten bucks!”

During production of an album, I made a large grid on poster board listing each of the songs we were recording and what the progress on each was. I hung the chart on the wall of the studio, and as we progressed, I’d check the appropriate box. Often I’d come in to find that Billy or one of the other guys had taped a couple of
Playboy
centerfolds (or worse) over the top of my list.

I’ll admit that I was as much of a prankster as any of them. Our practical jokes weren’t always confined to the studio, either.

Because I spend a lot of time traveling to and from work, the quality of the sound system in my car is extremely important. One day, we were sitting around after a session, and I made the mistake of mentioning that I was looking for a new car stereo.

A short time later, the guys called and said they were stopping by the house to bring me a present. I got all excited. When they drove up to my house, it was in an old jalopy that they’d bought for three hundred bucks. It had a top-flight stereo in it, but nothing else worked. They left it right on my front lawn, and I couldn’t move it because it wouldn’t start. It sunk into the mud, and I eventually had to pay to have it towed away.

On another occasion, Billy gave me a beautiful turntable. The only problem was, he had rigged it so that when you put a record on, the tonearm skated straight across the record, irreparably scratching it.

But I got Billy back.

I presented him with a gift: a nice clock that I had a friend encase in plastic. The clock told you the time on the minute: “It’s one-oh-one, it’s one-oh-two, it’s one-oh-three…” The clock nearly drove Billy insane! He would kick it, throw it across the room—he’d just abuse the hell out of it. But no matter what he did to it, the clock wouldn’t stop telling the time.

The closeness we enjoyed, however, occasionally put me on the spot.

At times I had to be assertive, and when I really put my foot down the guys didn’t always know how to take it. “Is he serious, or is he joking?” they would wonder. Sometimes they’d laugh nervously and say, “Uh-oh, the teacher’s getting mad.”

Meanwhile I’d be wondering too. Should I step in? Do we need to take a break, or send everyone home, or move on to a different song?

Like a parent who uses tough love on a child, I’d have to rein them in. One such occasion was when guitarists Russell Javors and David Brown’s foolery irritated Billy. We were recording
An Innocent Man
at a studio on Forty-second Street in 1983 when things boiled over.

Russell and David were horsing around while Billy and I were trying to talk. They were trading some great guitar riffs, but the fooling around was distracting, and it drove Billy crazy. It got to the point where I asked Russell and David to leave so we could sketch things out and cut the track without any intrusion.

After the session, Billy cornered me and asked, “What are we going to do about Russell and David?”

I had an idea that I thought might put a stop to the chaos.

I called Eric Gale, who was playing in Paul Simon’s band, and asked him to sit in on Billy’s next session.

As a sideman, you’ve got to know your place in the hierarchy, and Eric understood his role. He also knew how to play
inside
of a band—how to listen to a song and add to it without stepping on
everyone else. More important, he was a superb lead guitarist: a respected player who was imposing enough to help me make a point with Russell and David.

I warned Eric of my ploy in advance.

“I’ll have a chair in between Russell and David,” I explained. “Your Roland amp will be set up and ready to go. Just come in, sit down, plug in, and start to play. Be yourself and set the groove.”

On the night of the session, Eric came in without saying a word. He sat down between David and Russell, and started playing during the first rehearsal. Russell and David didn’t play a note—they just looked at him.

We went to the next take, and Eric immediately fell in. I didn’t speak to either Russell or David during the entire session; all of my comments were directed to Billy, Liberty, Eric, and Doug Stegmeyer. I could tell that my sternness—coupled with Eric’s formidable presence—was rattling Russell and David.

After that session, Russell and David snapped back into line. “Things are much cooler when you guys cooperate,” I said casually on the subsequent date. “What we’re doing isn’t about you or me—it’s about the guy at the piano.”

It’s every producer’s hope that their love for music and their respect for the artist and musicians rings true—both in their attitude toward their work and in the final product. What was most satisfying about the years I spent producing Billy Joel and his band was our camaraderie and the positive effect it had on our records.

Here is Liberty DeVitto’s description of the unique understanding we shared, and his perspective on my role as the producer:

“Phil knew how we could enhance Billy’s music, and he was able to get us under control. Someone told me that on
The Stranger
it sounded like someone had tied my balls to the drum seat to hold me back. That was true; it sounded that way because Phil taught me how to play in the studio. Drummers are mostly concerned about fills: ‘What am I going to do to impress the audience that hears this
record?’ With Phil it was a solid ‘two-and-four’ beat all the way. ‘Got to have the two-and-four, Lib,’ he’d say.

“The two-and-four beat aside, Phil allowed me to do some crazy shit. I could play backwards, invert a rhythm—everything was cool, as long as it felt right. He never smothered our creativity. Everyone thinks that I sat down and wrote all those drum parts, but it wasn’t that way at all. I didn’t think about starting ‘Allentown’ or ‘Uptown Girl’ with the beats they begin with—it just happened. All of us were making it up as we went along. We played what felt natural.

“Phil would let us do whatever we wanted in the studio—for forty minutes or an hour. He’d be in the control room talking to Jim Boyer or Bradshaw Leigh, and we’d be all over the place, thrashing through a song.

“Then, Phil would come on the talkback mike and say, ‘Okay, guys—you’ve been noodling around long enough. Do you want me to tell you how it should
really
go?’ We thought that he was absorbed in his conversation, and that he wasn’t tuned in to what we were playing. But it turns out that he’d been listening all the time! Sometimes he would say, ‘What you’ve been playing is really cool—why don’t you come in and listen to it? We’ve got it on tape.’

“One of the few arguments I ever had with Phil occurred when we were recording ‘My Life,’ but it was funny, not tense. He wanted me to play a very straight beat, and I bucked him. ‘I ain’t playin’ that disco bullshit!’ I said. Phil got up, slammed something on the console, and scolded me like he was my father. ‘You’ve been in this business for what, twelve minutes? And you’re gonna tell
me
how you’re gonna play? Just get the hell out there and play it the way I told you to play!’

“I grumbled about it then, but every time I see the gold record I received for ‘My Life’ on the wall, I mutter, ‘Fucking guy was right.’

“With Phil, there was never the separation you typically see between a band and their producer. We were a team, and he was our coach. I can still see Phil walking around the studio with head
phones on: He wanted to hear how the sound was shaping up, but he wanted to be right next to us at the same time. Phil was like a member of the band.

“The studio was Phil’s home, and we were invited in. It was like a bunch of city kids going to their uncle’s house in the country, and having him say, ‘Hey, kids—wanna go in the pool? Want some ice cream? Don’t worry that it’s almost dinnertime. Go wild—have fun.’

“We had some great times, and made some incredible records. The best thing about it was that in spite of the madness, Phil never lost track of who Billy Joel was.”

Great records aren’t recorded. They’re mixed.

Creating a mix is like preparing a fine meal: if the ingredients are of top quality and the chef knows the secret to combining them, the results can be sumptuous.

As in a gourmet dish, a well-crafted mix allows individual instruments and soloists to shine while complementing and strengthening the whole.

The mixing engineer is the star of the record-making process—an artist in every sense of the word. There’s a place for everything in a mix, and it’s the mixer’s job to put everything in its place.

Where will the organ or twelve-string guitar live? What about the horns? Does the piano sound better up front, or placed further in the background? How much air should be around it?

All of these questions will be raised—and answered—during the mix session.

A person’s response to a record has a lot to do with how their body moves when they are hearing it. How many times have you been in the car and found that you’re tapping your feet to a song on the radio, or pounding out the rhythm on the steering wheel? Have you ever played air drums or guitar, or been moved to tears by a song? Evoking that kind of response is a compliment to the artist, producer, and mixing engineer.

There are infinite ways to mix a record; the best mixes are designed to sound good anywhere—at home, on a boom box, in the car, or on an iPod. But the most important place a mix has to sound good is on the radio.

Radio was our target in the 1960s, ’70s, and ’80s, in the pre-Walkman days. I kept a small, white kitchen radio in the control room at A&R, and we’d play our mono mixes through it to preview how they’d sound on AM radio.

I also had a car speaker setup so we could hear how it would sound coming through the single-cone, full-range speakers found in automobiles. When FM stereo came into play, we had to adjust the mix to compensate for the heavy compression of the FM signal.

Clarity, space, and movement are all essential to achieving a harmonious sound. So are subtlety, balance, and decisiveness.

An instrument doesn’t have to jump out and clobber you over the head to make its point. Part of the charm of accent instruments like the Hammond B3 organ or a winsome flute, oboe, or French horn comes from how subtly they’re layered into the mix.

The most effective mixes take full advantage of psychoacoustics, which is why I mix in two dimensions: in stereo and in depth.

Creating a good layer from front to back and left to right offers depth and allows the instruments to breathe, which amplifies their tonal qualities. It also brings clarity to the mix.

Although ultrasophisticated computer-based systems such as Pro Tools have revolutionized the way we mix, my philosophy is the same as when we mixed in analog: start from the ground up by setting a strong foundation, and build on it.

A solid mix begins with a clean, tight rhythm track: bass, drums, piano, and guitar. Heart-stopping bass is one of the toughest things to get; a bristling top end comes easy, but it’s hard to keep things clean and funky on the bottom.

I’ve found that one of the best ways to really hear what’s going on in a mix is to listen at a low volume.

Unless the artist wants to hear something played loudly, I set everything to a predetermined volume and never change it. Low-level monitoring helps reduce ear fatigue and gives you a better sense of how the mix is shaping up. If you’re worried about
not
hearing something at low volume, relax—your ears will adjust.

If you ask any mixing engineer what the bane of their existence is, they’ll probably tell you it’s the artist who continually says, “I want to hear more
me.
” Vocalists especially feel they have a proprietary right to have their part stand out front and center, and they’re not entirely wrong.

Whenever I mix something for an artist, I make three samples: one with the vocals out front, one with the vocals where I think they should be, and one with the vocals mixed back. After a week or so they should be able to select a clear winner (hopefully, it will be the one right in the middle).

There is a physiological reason for the “three mix” technique: the limitations of human hearing. As the volume on a radio or stereo is turned down, hearing the lowest and highest frequencies on a recording becomes difficult. Comparing the three mixes allows us to adjust the mix so it sounds good at all listening levels.

Another thing I like to do is run the choice vocal against the rhythm mix to see how it sounds
before
I add any sweetening (other
instruments, percussion, etc.). If the vocal doesn’t blend well with the rhythm track, it won’t improve when the rest of the instruments are added later.

Transparency is a virtue, and if the mixing engineer and I have done our jobs, none of the characteristics I’ve described should step out and say, “Here I am.”

Jim Boyer and I spent hundreds of hours together recording and mixing Billy Joel’s records, and his recollection of our techniques is vivid:

“In crafting a mix, Phil painted a sonic picture. The rule was that when it came to mixing, there were no rules. He would EQ something in a squirrelly way and I’d look at him funny, but when you heard it in the mix it made sense. He’d narrowband something and make it sound very thin, but in the context of the mix it sounded just right. He taught me the trick to using the old Fairchild limiters, and how to use saturation to your benefit.

Jim “Flying Faders” Boyer mugs for the camera during a mixing session, early 1980s
Courtesy of Larry Franke

“Phil had me start mixing without looking at the meters, because he wanted me to understand the relationship between level hearing and where ‘0 VU’ was on the meters. I’d never given it a thought, but it was a fundamental relationship, and a lot of engineers didn’t
understand it. They don’t understand how what they’re seeing on the meters relates to the decibels being heard, so they’re either pinning and distorting, or recording under level.”

Spending a few minutes listening closely to a representative mix—one that reflects the qualities and subtlety of technique that I’ve described—will give you a sense of what a top-notch mix brings to a record.

As an example, I’ll use Billy Joel’s “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant,” as the mix has excellent dynamic range and a myriad of color. I would say that it’s one of the mixes I’m most proud of. Most people are familiar with it, too. To appreciate my descriptions, it would be advantageous to listen to the recording through a set of headphones—even the comparatively lo-fi ones that come with most iPods.

Generally we used as little EQ as possible when mixing “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant.” Consequently the bass and drums are focused and tight, and the cymbals ring without being harsh. Each instrument occupies a meaningful spot in the mix; more importantly, the mix possesses the requisite clarity, spaciousness, and movement.

Here are some specific sections, and the characteristics you should listen for in each:

1. MAIN THEME: “A BOTTLE OF WHITE, A BOTTLE OF RED…” (at 0:14):

The opening section features piano, accordion, vocal, and guitar. There’s a slight reverb on the vocal, with a boost in the upper vocal range to emphasize the
T
and
S
sounds. This section offers an example of
complementary equalization.

With complementary equalization, instruments that have frequencies in common are equalized to remove or enhance some of the shared frequencies. This helps each instrument stand out, and allows it to retain its own designated space in the mix.

In the introduction, the acoustic guitar (which comes in on the second verse) was equalized with a fair amount of treble. If it hadn’t
been, the sound of the guitar would compete with that of the accordion. Heard on its own, the equalized guitar would sound thin and weak; blended into the mix, it sounds terrific. Every note being played retains its sharpness and clarity. Notice how the guitar (and, at the end of this section, the drums) are heard in both the right and left channels; this effect offers great dimension.

2. INSTRUMENTAL INTERLUDE (saxophone solo) (at 1:07):

There is little (if any) compression on the saxophone; the sound of the instrument is natural, and reflects the dynamic range of the original performance. This is an important characteristic.

Compression squeezes a signal’s dynamic range. Mixing engineers use compression to even out a record’s levels by raising the softer notes and lowering the louder ones. Excess compression can easily reduce a mix’s dynamic nuances, and with them, a bit of emotionality.

In this instance, each note that Richie Cannata plays is discernible.

At the end of the saxophone solo, you can hear how we rode the gain (turned the volume control on the console up when the playing was soft, and down when it was loud).

3. INSTRUMENTAL INTERLUDE (Dixieland band) (at 2:23):

The exuberant melody in this section offered an opportunity to add lots of color to the mix, and in addition to the bright instrumentation, we used
panning
(moving the instruments across the soundstage) to impart depth and dimensionality.

In many cases, the mixing engineer would have mixed the trombone, clarinet, and tuba to the left, center, and right respectively. But in this case, the trombone is placed slightly left of center in the stereo image, leaving space for the other instruments to breathe.

4. THE BALLAD OF BRENDA AND EDDIE (at 3:00):

Listen for the piano boost (with accents) after the first
“Brenda and Eddie…”
vocal line in this section.

Overall, there’s a midrange bite, which allows every note that bassist Doug Stegmeyer plays to cut through without sounding offensive.

Then, the lowest frequencies in the bass guitar have been rolled off to help accentuate the kick drum. This is another example of complementary equalization: Here, the tone of the kick drum and electric bass are adjusted so that they’re each defined in their own space. I didn’t want to lose any of the fabulous interplay between piano, bass, and drums at the end of this section.

I could list hundreds of similar examples, using dozens of songs and techniques. But you get the idea.

Billy liked listening to the mixes and had the ultimate approval, although he wouldn’t necessarily come to the mix sessions. Even when he was physically in the building, he wouldn’t sit with Jim and me while we were mixing. He’d come in and listen when we were done, or we’d send him the mixes and he’d get together with the band and then give us feedback. Either way, we’d take his suggestions and remix the song until he was satisfied.

In addition to blending the music elements, the mixing session is when sound effects (if being used) are added.

Many producers use canned effects from stock libraries, but I enjoyed recording my own sound effects whenever possible. There’s nothing like the challenge of devising and reproducing an effect you’re looking for. Sometimes the chase is more exciting than the catch.

I recorded more offbeat sound effects for Billy Joel’s records than anyone else’s.

The screeching tires and roaring engines on “Movin’ Out (Anthony’s Song)” from
The Stranger
were the first ones we did, and they were fairly easy to re-create.

Bassist Doug Stegmeyer had a couple of Corvettes and a motorcycle, and we sent an engineer out to Long Island to record Doug’s car peeling out. The engineer strapped a crappy dynamic micro
phone to the tailpipe, and after several unsuccessful tries, got the right sound.

Although it’s not an effect per se, I’m frequently asked about the whistling on “The Stranger.” Yes—that’s Billy Joel whistling, and it was an idea he unwittingly came up with early on.

“The Stranger” has mysterious underpinnings, and Billy wanted to heighten its drama. He wrote a short prelude to preface the main song. He whistled it to demonstrate it for me, and asked what instrument I thought we should use.

The melody—and the way he whistled it—sounded great.

“That’s it—you’ve just done it,” I said.

We recorded him whistling, and added a bit of echo. The whistling prelude extended the understated atmosphere of “The Stranger,” giving the song’s shadowy protagonist an appropriately ambiguous identity.

To end the album we reprised the whistling theme—this time adding strings—thus bringing the idea full circle.