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 controlroom. 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 firstcalled 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
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 controlroom. 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 firstcalled 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
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