Making Records: The Scenes Behind the Music (8 page)

With Julian Lennon
Phil Ramone Collection

My first meeting with an artist is like a blind date.

While the story of how my relationship with Billy Joel began summarizes how an artist woos a producer (or vice versa), it’s worth explaining in detail what goes on behind the scenes during the first date—and beyond.

The first thing I do after receiving a call from a prospective artist is listen to their music. I’ll ask for some demos, or go out and buy a bunch of their CDs. Listening doesn’t just give me insight into the artist’s musicianship; it can help me determine how serious they are about their work.

One artist whose demos proved his sincerity was Julian Lennon.

Ahmet Ertegun had signed him to an Atlantic Records contract, and Julian was looking for a producer. He’d been studying different records to figure out what he liked and disliked in their production. While driving home from an interview one day, he listened to Billy Joel’s
The Nylon Curtain
and liked what he heard. The sound had
the overall feel that Julian desired for his own recordings, and he asked Ahmet to arrange a meeting.

Julian wasn’t even twenty years old, and he was carrying the immense burden of being adorable, and the son of a legendary musician—a Beatle, no less. The entire world eagerly anticipated his first album. No one knew what Julian could do yet, and he was incredibly hard on himself. He found songwriting—and figuring out where he fit in musically—to be difficult.

He struggled, but in the end
Valotte
—named for the French château where the fabulous demos I had heard were made—was very special. Julian was nominated for a Grammy in the Best New Artist category (1985),
Valotte
went gold and then platinum, and “Too Late for Goodbyes” spent two weeks in the number one position on the Adult Contemporary chart.

After familiarizing myself with their music, the artist and I will begin to chat.

When I was an engineer, the first time I’d meet the performer was ten minutes before the session began. As a producer, I try to spend as much time as possible planning a project with them, and we’ll usually meet (or speak on the phone) three or four times before we get to the studio.

Our first meeting is like a film director’s “table read,” at which the cast members meet each other and read through the script page by page. This introduction allows the artist and me to quickly size each other up. I like to keep the setting informal: breakfast, lunch, dinner, or drinks. Sharing a meal is a nice way to break the ice and get to know each other. It’s like dating, really.

Probing to learn the artist’s range of interests helps me design a framework for their album. Asking them to name ten or twelve songs they love—whether they’re songs they’d choose to record or not—is revealing. Later, we might burn a CD of those songs and listen to it together.

Artists are always eager to tell me who their influences are, and
I’m interested in hearing about them. I’m often taken by surprise. “My parents used to play Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney,” they’ll say, or, “I grew up listening to Broadway music, but I didn’t pay attention to it until I was eighteen. I realized then that it wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

I once had a very young artist say, “What used to put me in a really good place was listening to Ravel.” I thought, What would this kid know about Ravel? It turns out that his dad—a hardworking guy who operated a bulldozer—used to sit on the back porch, smoke his pipe, and play Ravel.

You’d be surprised at what comes out during these casual conversations.

When we first met to discuss the making of
Am I Not Your Girl?
, a set of pop standards, Sinéad O’Connor revealed that she’d long dreamed of doing such an album. Why? Because when Sinéad was young, one of her mother’s favorite records was an album by Marilyn Monroe. When she began performing in small Irish pubs, those were the songs Sinéad sang.

As we reviewed songs for her project, Sinéad started rattling off songs that Marilyn Monroe had sung: “My Heart Belongs to Daddy,” “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend,” and “She Acts Like a Woman Should.”

In another case, singer Melissa Errico, arranger Michel Legrand, and I were discussing songs for an upcoming record. Michel brought in some of the classic recordings made by Shirley Horn and encouraged Melissa to listen to them. When she did, she discovered that while they were beautiful records the tempos were much slower than she had anticipated. The ultra-ballad approach was not what Melissa had in mind.

During the planning meetings, I listen more than I talk. Some producers walk in, take charge, and dictate what an artist should do. Nothing is more offensive than a producer who disregards the
artist’s ideas; it’s presumptuous, and it usually leads to disappointment and failure.

Consider what happened to Aretha Franklin.

When she signed with Columbia Records in the early 1960s, Aretha was molded according to a formula devised years earlier by Columbia’s A&R director, Mitch Miller. Although she was a sensational pianist, Aretha’s instrumental prowess was largely ignored and her vocals emphasized. The music she was given to record was aimed at a middle-of-the-road white audience. While she made some very good records for the label, few of Aretha’s Columbia recordings were big sellers because they didn’t reflect who she really was: an incomparable rhythm and blues artist with a ton of soul.

Remember what I said about the danger of formulas?

While Mitch’s ideas for turning neophytes into stars worked for vocalists of the early 1950s (Tony Bennett, Rosemary Clooney, Guy Mitchell, and Frankie Laine), they didn’t work for the edgier artists (like Aretha Franklin) that Columbia signed a decade later.

Planning session with Michel Legrand and Melissa Errico
Phil Ramone Collection

It took Ahmet Ertegun, Jerry Wexler, and Tom Dowd at Atlantic Records to recognize who Aretha was, and where she belonged. When he signed her in 1967, the first thing Wexler told Aretha was, “I want you to feel free, and to record the music that’s in your heart.”
Wexler and Dowd listened to Aretha’s ideas, and it made a difference in what she recorded. Singles like “I Never Loved a Man (The Way I Love You)” and “Respect” were the antithesis of what she’d done at Columbia. Recording them helped her build a wide audience and succeed the late Dinah Washington as the “Queen of R&B.”

I spoke earlier about honesty and trust, and few things can shake an artist’s faith in a producer faster than the perceived mishandling of a problem, no matter how minor.

Nearly every project hits a bump or two along the way, and I try to find a moment during our initial meeting to discuss in advance some strategies for coping with them.

What happens if we get to the session, and after listening to a playback of the day’s work the artist decides they don’t like the arrangement, or the way a particular soloist is playing? If we
haven’t
thrashed out the details, the artist may not feel comfortable telling me they’re dissatisfied until late in the session. If I’ve just let the band (or the offending soloist) leave the studio and there’s not enough time or enough money in the budget to bring them back for a retake, no one will be happy.

Sharing our expectations up-front helps everyone understand their roles.

I’m easygoing, but I have a methodical way of working, and the first meeting is also a good time for me to set the ground rules so we can maximize our productivity once we get to the studio.

Don’t misunderstand: I’m not a schoolmarm, or a strict disciplinarian by any stretch of the imagination! If the setting and mood are right, the sensitive topics I touch on at this first meeting are broached in a friendly, inoffensive way. Most of them are fundamental, commonsense social and emotional issues that are essential to any successful interaction, whether you’re a performer or producer.

First and foremost, I strive for genuine, direct communication.

In our business, phoniness rings outrageously loud.
“Oh,
Sweetie! Baby! Cookie! Darling! How wonderful you are!”
That sort of fawning is cloying and superfluous. A few genuine words of praise mean more to an artist than a string of sycophantic compliments. Simply saying, “It works” or “That’s great” after a performance reassures an artist—and speaks volumes about your sincerity. Most of the time the artist will know how excited (or tepid) I feel about a take from the tone of voice I use. Subtlety speaks volumes.

Being at the helm and communicating effectively isn’t always easy. How do you tell someone like Paul McCartney, “It can be better—let’s do one more take!” I’m just as big a fan of Paul and the Beatles as the next guy. Working with a big-name artist—someone you respect as a songwriter, musician, and cultural icon—can be intimidating if you’re not well grounded.

What if the performer is a fellow record producer?

I’ve partnered with many musicians who’ve had experience in the control room—artists whose writing ability and production sensibilities I admire and respect. If I can stretch my brain, heart, and soul to bring them something new, I’m doing my job—as a producer and friend. If another producer is kind enough to say, “Will you work with me?” I’m there.

The question I ask myself when producing a fellow producer is, “Can they be objective about their own work?”

In the control room with Paul McCartney, 1986
Phil Ramone Collection

Producing an artist is one thing; standing on the
other
side of the microphone and putting oneself in the hands of another producer like me, is another. In this situation I say, “You have the ability to produce yourself. But, you’ve got to trust that I can step back, look at the overall picture, and help you figure out where to go musically.”

The years I spent with Paul Simon and Billy Joel taught me about how to work cooperatively with an artist who has the capability to produce, and where my own ego fits in. I might have a better idea, or come up with a more suitable chord or phrase than the artist I’m working with, but when the record’s done it’s the composite of all our input that makes it work.

Whether it’s an especially gifted or famous artist or a fellow producer, taking a step back to remind yourself that all they want to do is make the best record possible is often helpful. Even the most celebrated musicians look to the producer for honest feedback, not false praise. The caveat is that if I tell Paul McCartney (or anyone else), “I think you can do a better take,” I’d better be right.

Regardless of whom you’re working with, rudeness is neither acceptable nor tolerable. In my work domain the doorman, receptionist, the assistant who does the grunt work, and the kid who brings us coffee are as sacred to me as the artist. Music provides the relief in life, and there’s no reason why we can’t be kind to each other and have a good time while we’re making it.

At every step, humbleness and discretion should guide what we do.

Frank Sinatra, for instance, was able to walk into a recording studio anywhere in the world and command respect because of who he was as a musician. The public may have fawned over him because he was a star, but music people revered Sinatra for his professionalism and musical acumen. While fans might forgive celebrities who push their weight around, seasoned musicians aren’t inclined to make such concessions.