Making Records: The Scenes Behind the Music (4 page)

The epitome of cool, Frank swaggered onstage, picked up the mike, and began to sing. But the audience couldn’t hear him; his microphone was dead.

When he realized it wasn’t working, Frank dropped the mike onto the floor and left the stage. There was a strange silence in the showroom. A few minutes later the introduction was repeated, and Sinatra made his second entrance. This time the microphone worked.

Lesson number one, forever.

That evening at the Sands showed me that it wasn’t enough to make sure that all of the microphones, recorders, and cables were working when I ran a session; I needed to have two vocal mikes, a backup recorder, and a technician on hand to instantly resolve any problems that came up. In my early years as an engineer I was so obsessed with having everything in order that I’d set up the night before and come in a few hours before a session to check and recheck the equipment. The last thing I ever want is for an artist to come to work and walk into chaos.

Am I fussy? You bet.

But I only demand of others what I demand of myself: dedication and attentiveness. I can laugh and enjoy myself, but when it comes time to make the record I expect everyone’s full attention.

Until after I made
The Stranger
with Billy Joel in 1977, I engineered most of the records I produced. When my partnership with Billy flourished, I devoted myself to working closely with him on style and approach, and relinquished the recording duties to engineers whom I trusted, like Jim Boyer and Bradshaw Leigh (both of whom I trained). It was an excellent choice; being able to concentrate on the artist and their needs without worrying about
things like Are we getting this on tape? made producing far more enjoyable.

Preparation, however, doesn’t guarantee that once we begin recording there won’t be tension in the air.

There are times when making records is tough: the recording console might be giving us hell, or the instruments might not sound right (pianos and string instruments are particularly affected by temperature and humidity).

Maybe the singer is having an off day and can’t find his or her groove, or we spend hours working on a guitar overdub that should take thirty minutes.

And it’s almost guaranteed that every album you make will have at least one song that says, “If you think I’m gonna give up my lyric and melody to you so easily, you’ve got another thing coming!”

Minor annoyances such as these affect every artist from time to time, regardless of stature or experience. The key to overcoming them is persistence.

While rehearsing “Still Crazy After All These Years” in New York with pianist Barry Beckett in 1975, Paul Simon experimented with many different keys. For Beckett, it was bewildering.

“Try C,” Paul suggested.

Barry played the song; Paul shook his head.

“No, no—how about C-sharp?”

Barry tried another run-through; Paul mused.

“Nope. I’ve got it—D.”

The deliberation continued as the pair tested E-flat, A-flat—every key that Paul could think of.

As a founding member of the esteemed Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section (based in Muscle Shoals, Alabama), Beckett was accustomed to nailing down a part in thirty minutes or less. He adored Paul and wanted to please him, but after three or four hours of concentrated effort on “Still Crazy After All These Years,” his exasperation spilled over.

“Paul, this isn’t going to work,” he said. “I will
never
get this song—
ever
.”

I was amused.

What Barry underestimated was Paul’s resolve, and his perfectionism. I’ve seen Paul toil for hours on an instrumental track, only to come back the next day and scrap everything because he’d made changes he thought would improve the song.

With “Still Crazy After All These Years,” Barry ended up being inspired by Paul’s tenacity. They kept at it, and after a bit more work they agreed on an appropriate key.

The bonus was that by the end of the day, Barry knew the tune so well he could anticipate Paul’s phrasing. When the band came in to record it, they went straight to it without rehearsing. It didn’t take long at all to cut the record.

Nothing was more ironic than the weeks it took for Billy Joel’s band to perfect “Get It Right the First Time,” a song we recorded for
The Stranger
in 1977. The tune has a complex rhythm, and it took a while to coalesce.

As I recall, we would start a date by trying “Get It Right the First Time,” and, when it didn’t click, put it aside to work on another song such as “She’s Always A Woman To Me,” or “Movin’ Out.” We’d come back to “Get It Right the First Time” later in the session, and when it
still
didn’t click, we’d turn to yet another tune—“Only the Good Die Young,” perhaps.

At the end of each of
The Stranger
sessions I’d say, “How about trying ‘Get It Right the First Time’?” It got to where the guys would anticipate coming back to it, and when we did, they’d moan.
“Come on, we’re not doing it again, are we? Fucking song doesn’t wanna be born!”
This went on for more than a couple of weeks.

Then, Billy and I decided to give the tune a rest—we didn’t even mention it to the band for a few days. Then, one afternoon, we were putting another song through its paces when Billy stopped
abruptly and said, “Let’s do ‘Get It Right the First Time’—
right now
.”

It was impulsive—maybe even instinctive. He counted it off, and miraculously, the groove slipped right into place. We had it down in a few takes; afterward, we cracked open a bottle of wine and said, “Amen!”

At the Palace Theatre, New York City, late 1950s
Phil Ramone Collection

I’ll always be a musician at heart.

Music has been part of my life since I was three, when I saw a gypsy fiddler playing for tips in a restaurant. Something about him fascinated me, and I went so crazy that my parents ran out and bought me a toy violin. I found the violin enchanting, and by the time I was four, I was playing the real thing and studying classical music with the conductor of a symphony orchestra.

The restaurant violinist of my youth was simply a catalyst.

No one can master an instrument unless they have some aptitude, and I was lucky to have been born with a latent affinity for music—an unwavering passion that, once ignited, couldn’t be repressed. Thankfully, my love for music was recognized early on and nurtured in innumerable ways.

There’s a strict discipline that comes with playing serious music, and that discipline is ingrained in me. It’s guided my life and helped
me accomplish everything I’ve done. Discipline, and a strong sense of purpose, came from my parents. Mom and Dad’s encouragement fostered our creativity and helped bring out the best in my sister, Doreen, and me.

While most ten-year-olds were outside playing ball, I was inside playing the violin. My teacher was a gifted man named Ivan Galamian, and whenever we were home, my sister and I were usually practicing. Once in a while, people would knock on the door and say, “Keep practicing—it sounds good.” Then, you might hear, “Shut up!” It paid off, though: I ended up at Juilliard, and Doreen went on to study opera and dance.

Although I had little time to myself, studying music on that level gave me a solid foundation. I probably absorbed more music as a teenager by going to Juilliard and knocking around the city than most people do in a lifetime.

But I wasn’t just playing the violin—I was listening, too.

I loved tinkering with electronics kits and phonographs, and a big delight for me was discovering the link between music and sound recording. Captivated by my instrument’s tonality, I spent hours trying to rig it up electronically so it would sound good on a recording. That curiosity helped me learn about the
sound
of music. While I studied hard and played the fiddle for years to come, it was the irresistible urge to make it sound better that drove me to become a recording engineer and producer.

A common question that hopeful producers often ask is, “Do I need to be a musician—or be able to read music—to become a record producer?”

While having formal musical training isn’t required, it certainly helps. In fact, for me it’s been invaluable.

My experience as a musician has a discernible effect on the way I approach production. It also enables me to follow a score, recognize errors in tuning and pitch, and explain what I hear in my head to artists, arrangers, and musicians.

The communication aspect is particularly important. Musicians are an eccentric lot, and speaking their language helps me tap into their needs more easily. A good example of this is what happened when Paul Simon recorded “Have A Good Time” for the album
Still Crazy After All These Years
in 1975.

The song has a jazzy feel, and to emphasize its leitmotif I asked saxophonist Phil Woods to play a wild, free-form jazz riff at the very end. Knowing how much Woods idolized saxophonist Charlie Parker, I snapped my fingers to set the tempo. “How about some bebop in B-flat right about here?” I asked. “Just give me thirty seconds of insanity.”

Woods went right into the solo, and blew up a storm. After a minute of hot and heavy playing he stopped and took a deep breath. “Is that what you wanted?” he asked. “Yeah!” I said. “Perfect.”

In addition to having a bit of musical ability and being able to converse fluently with musicians, having eclectic musical tastes—and a knowledge of different musical styles and genres—is a prerequisite for working with songwriters and recording artists.

Jazz, more than any other genre, has been a consistent theme in my life and work.

For a classical student, it was the forbidden fruit, but I was a rebel. Jazz became my musical nirvana: the ultimate confluence of melody, rhythm, and unrestrained musical expression. Although my classically trained professors discouraged it, I wanted to let my violin wander into the jazz world the way Stephan Grappelli and Django Reinhardt did. I began playing in small clubs on Fifty-second Street, which drew the ire of my Juilliard professors, who had no compunctions voicing their displeasure.

Contrary to their opinion, I found copious musicality in those jazz performances. I learned to speak the language of music because I was exposed to the best of both worlds—classical
and
jazz. The role model who drove the point home for me was Andre Previn, who could arrange, orchestrate, compose, conduct symphony
orchestras, and play jazz piano. Andre’s versatility was a real inspiration in my life as a budding musician, engineer, and producer—he helped me assimilate a generous array of music.

I’d spend hours listening to Art Tatum, Count Basie, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, or John Coltrane play a solo, and then I’d dissect it. Sitting at the feet of the jazz masters—literally and figuratively—gave me a better education than a dozen classes in music theory ever could.

One of the greatest things I learned from the jazz players was how to edit. Not how to physically splice tape, but how to condense a musical thought without diluting its coherence or artistic intention. To that end, recording saxophonist John Coltrane’s
Olé Coltrane
in mid-1961 taught me a great deal. The album came at a moment in Coltrane’s life when the notion of self-editing was foremost in his mind.

Bebop hadn’t seen a sax player with the emotive brilliance of Charlie Parker until John Coltrane came along. Although he could play sweetly (as albums such as
Lush Life, Ballads,
and
John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman
demonstrate), Coltrane’s modern improvisations were ingenious. In the period that wrought
Olé Coltrane
, he attacked every phrase like a pit bull.

While the jaw-dropping ferocity of Coltrane’s lengthy solos appealed to ardent beboppers, their depth was often lost on the casual jazz fan. Inspired by some patrons who walked out when he launched into one of his abstract meanderings, Coltrane decided to refine the way he collated and framed his thoughts while playing to an audience.

“Sometimes [I] would get up and play a twenty, maybe thirty minute solo,” Coltrane explained. “Then, [my band] went into the Apollo, and the manager said ‘You’re playing for too long—you can only play for twenty minutes.’ Well, we ended up playing
three songs
in twenty minutes. I played all the highlights of the solos that [individually] had taken me twenty or more minutes each to play. It
made me think, ‘What have I been doing all this time?’ If I’m going to take twenty or thirty minutes to say something that I can say in ten minutes, maybe I’d better say it in ten minutes!”

Although I didn’t fully comprehend their value at the time, Coltrane’s comments—the way he acknowledged the problem, and his thoughts on brevity—definitely affected the way I helped prune and shape the records I was involved in making.

Another important thing I recognized during my early years was that jazz musicians weren’t afraid to experiment, and part of the reason I was blessed with success as a producer is because I wouldn’t hesitate to juxtapose a classical soloist with a rock-and-roll band, or a jazz player with a pop singer.

I started by doing it with Paul Simon (Michael Brecker playing on “Still Crazy After All These Years”) and Billy Joel (Phil Woods on “Just the Way You Are” and Freddie Hubbard on “Zanzibar”), and found that it added a nice texture to their songs.

While a producer can suggest ideas such as these to an artist, they won’t work unless the artist buys into the concept.

Paul Simon loves musical exploration, and was pleased when I suggested bringing in Bob James to do some arrangements for
Still Crazy After All These Years
. Paul also welcomed the freshness that drummer Steve Gadd and keyboardist Richard Tee brought to his solo records.

Billy Joel, however, was a bit apprehensive about featuring jazz players. He wanted to be accepted as a rock and roller, but critics insisted on branding him as “pop.” Billy expressed genuine admiration for the players I suggested; he simply wasn’t sure whether veering into jazz territory would help or hurt his cause.

Billy’s lyrics had a distinct dramatic flair; his ideas, and the eloquent way he expressed them, were sophisticated. Songs such as “She’s Always A Woman To Me,” “Just the Way You Are,” and “Everybody Has A Dream” allowed their stories to unfold effortlessly, and reflected sentiments that everyone could understand.

“Why shouldn’t you experiment a bit, at least on a few songs, if not a whole album?” I asked. “It’s okay to create a jazz kind of mood. You can do it credibly because you’ve written a song called ‘Zanzibar,’ and at the very end there are jazz riffs. Those phrases are a nod to all of the great jazz artists you heard while you were growing up.”

I convinced him to chance the dramatic, and
52nd Street
—the second record that Billy and I made together, in 1978—took his music in a new direction.

The overarching flavor of
52nd Street
is sultry and cool, and to enhance its seductiveness we invited Freddie Hubbard and Jon Faddis (trumpet), Steve Khan, Dave Spinozza, Hugh McCracken, and Eric Gale (guitars), Mike Manieri (marimba and vibes), and Ralph MacDonald (percussion)—a group of prodigious contemporary jazz soloists—to make guest appearances. As it turned out, the all-stars we chose clicked so well with Billy’s band that we took to calling them “The Lords of 52nd Street.”

Both “Zanzibar” and “Stiletto” are momentous examples of Billy’s versatility, and the polish that marks the best of his records.

“Zanzibar”—the story of a young man trying to make it with a nightclub waitress—embodies the suave, provocative tone of the chic dance clubs that sprang up around New York City in the late 1970s. The theme offered us an expansive forum for experimentation; what emerged was a solid pop tune adorned with tasteful elements of hot and cool jazz. A particular highlight is the song’s bridge, where a dreamy interlude (featuring keyboards and vibes) erupts into an unexpected jazz trumpet solo by Freddie Hubbard. Underscoring the passage is a driving, ascending/descending bass line, which lends it an urgency that’s irresistibly sexy.

“Stiletto” cuts fast and deep; tension plays a starring role. But the qualities that make “Stiletto” a standout took time to develop.

When we first recorded the track there were no funky bass lines, crackling finger snaps, or cliffhanger breaks. After auditioning
the first playbacks, Billy decided that “Stiletto” needed a visceral hook, and incorporating the aforementioned bass lines, finger snaps, and breaks helped to create the tension that serves the song so well.

Memorable fills, phrases, and breaks—such as the ones heard on “Stiletto”—are what set the best records apart. These devices are especially effective when they’re heard at the beginning of a song; if you can come up with something spicy and unique, you’ve got a better chance of getting (and holding) the audience’s attention.

Think of a pop or rock song that gets your adrenaline flowing: one with such an exciting feel that once you hear it, the melody and the sound of the record become emblazoned in your memory. The Beatles’ “Drive My Car,” The Beach Boys’ “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” Queen’s “We Will Rock You,” Bruce Springsteen’s “Hungry Heart,” and Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” are a few good examples.

One of the greatest thrills for a producer is helping the artist find a hook to define their record. Sometimes all that’s needed is a simple twist of instrumentation, or a subtle effect to turn a lackluster opening into something extraordinary. Often, the intrinsic style of a special guest artist, or a top-flight session player can spur unexpected moments of greatness.

Remember the drum cadence at the beginning of Paul Simon’s “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover”?

The way we stumbled upon it was a happy accident.

On the day we tracked the band track for “50 Ways” Paul was in the control room, strumming the melody on his guitar. He’d been playing around with a Rhythm Ace electronic drum machine, and had found a samba beat that he thought would work for the song.

Out in the studio, Steve Gadd was warming up. Following his usual prerecording routine, he began playing a drum corps–style street beat, the precision of which was compelling. Paul heard the nagging rhythm through the open door, and stopped playing his
guitar. He went out into the studio. “That’s good, Steve,” he said. “Play it again.” As Gadd tapped away on the snare, Paul grabbed his guitar and began singing over the melody. It was a stunning combination, and Paul was delighted. “Phil, I think we just found a way to start the song!”

In that moment the personality of “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover” changed. Steve’s happenstance contribution was a driving force that helped push the single to number one on
Billboard
’s Hot 100 chart;
Still Crazy After All These Years
—the record on which it appeared—won the Grammy for Album of the Year (1976).