Niko Bolas is a class act. For over 40 years he has operated as an engineer, mixer, and producer. One look at his extensive discography immediately evidences the fact that he is beyond skilled and obviously personable. He works on and off with Neil Young (Barn, This Note’s For You), on posthumous Prince releases, LeAnn Rimes, Sheryl Crow, KISS, Devendra Banhart, and even with the Circle Jerks. He ensures he connects artists with the universe’s waves of creativity. Additionally, he also helped connect the world with the first internet radio device. But first and foremost, he is a record maker, and a has a rare talent that gets to the heart of record-making. -RS

Roman Sokal’s Interview:

How do you veer between clean, pristine sounds and mucked-with sounds? How do you approach the differences as an engineer, as well as see the different colors as a producer and mixer?

It’s all the same thing, really. If a producer is explaining to me something that they want to hear, then it’s up to me to figure out their adjectives. That’s the joy of the art of engineering. I experiment, and I experiment on my own time. I practice a lot. I use all kinds of weird plug-ins and pieces of gear. Plug it in, try it, and see what it does. So, when I work with somebody, especially when I work with somebody new who tells me they want a certain sound, be it that they use color adjectives, sonic adjectives, or real-world adjectives – like, “I want it to be beautiful” – I go with my intuitive reaction to what they’re saying. The more I get to know them, the faster I can figure out what it is they’re explaining. The real secret is I have to take my own ego out of it and try and be a palette and a paintbrush for somebody else. It’s a real challenge, and it’s a lot of fun if I get it right. It’s all the same. A dirty sound and a clean sound are just two different adjectives. It’s sound. We’re moving air. I don’t really have a differential.

You came up in the traditional, old school studio way, by being an assistant?

Yeah. I loaded a remote truck for a guy named Brad Pinkstaff. Then, at Silverlake Studios, I worked for a brilliant engineer named Steve Millang. He said, “If you can fix the roof, you can hang out.” I stayed with Steve Millang for about six months. Then Val Garay [Tape Op #112] hired me. We met because I was taking pictures of his Corvette for Hot Rod Magazine. We hit it off. He was building a studio called Record One, which became famous and is still rocking – it’s Dr. Dre’s studio now. It was an amazing facility and was Val’s brainchild. I went to work for him as a liaison between the construction crew, and then at nights I was allowed to hang out. Quite frankly, I just never went home and now it’s been 44 years.

What gig or gigs have been memorable or challenging? Were there any situations where you had to apply psychology skills?

Well, that’s every session. [laughter] The first psychology skill you have to have is patience. That applies to yourself. It’s so that the person who is creating can have the space to do that. If you’re going to do anything, offer that freedom in whatever language works. For some people it could be, “Why don’t we stop and order food?” For some it could be emptying the control room and getting all the friends out of there so they can actually pay attention. Most artists tend to be very, very friendly, jovial people, and a lot of people like to be with them. If somebody has to really focus on something, they’re not rude. Sometimes my job is to be rude and empty the control room so they can pay attention. Sometimes it’s the opposite. They’re not getting it, nothing’s happening, and they need inspiration. Open the doors and hope people come to visit. It’s all different. The important things to realize are: First, it’s not your picture on the cover, so your job is whatever it takes to make that person a better artist than they would have been if you weren’t there. The second thing to remember is that as long as you give that effort, whether or not you got a take that day doesn’t matter. The takes are not up to us. Takes come from the universe.

Show up, give 100 percent, and do the best you can to be the best you can. It could take a month before you get a song to where you play it back and go, “That’s the recording we’re going to share with the world.” Or it could take three and a half minutes. That’s not up to you. The only thing that’s up to you is the effort.

And the ability to be prepared to capture everything, right?

My rule is to put everything in record and then go set up the mics. Do it in that order. A first take that comes from the muse or the universe only happens once. It’s the first time. It doesn’t matter what microphone or tape machine I use. All of that’s secondary. What matters is that I captured it. Whatever format I capture it in is going to become what it is. What’s going to happen is the next time somebody tries to do that, they’re going to want to know the serial number of the Radio Shack cassette machine I used. They’re missing the point. The point is to play back inspiration, any way I can. That’s my job. With somebody like Neil Young – actually, with just about every artist I work with – they’re so good and so inspired. I have such a deep respect for their conduit with whatever their creativity is. My responsibility, if I can give anything to the session, is to always be recording it. Keep something “in record” somewhere, and I’ll have it. If nothing else, we’ll have the actual idea to refine. We can’t get back something that’s only a memory; we’ll only get back what we think we remember.

What do you think it is that Neil Young likes about hiring you?

Um, I’m lucky! [laughs] I don’t know. I don’t think Neil goes back to anything. Neil creates with whatever’s in front of him, and if it’s not working, he tries something else. I can’t take anything personally with Neil. Neil loves everyone, but also his purpose on the planet is to be a conduit, and that takes precedence. As long as you can understand that and try to help him, he’ll be in and out of your life for a long time. He’s not a normal human, but he’s worth the effort.

I remember Mark Howard [Tape Op #134] was telling me that Neil Young will only record on the three days prior to a full moon?

Yeah, that’s just a target. He always feels really, really creative then.

Have you had other artists who had an eccentric working method?

All of them! Every artist I’ve ever been gifted with is eccentric. I’m fortunate. I’m the luckiest guy in the world, because I get people who are not normal. People who are obsessed with using audio and performance to communicate an emotion. For some people, that happens around full moons. For some it happens around family events. For others it happens when they get their paycheck, because they’re broke and they can only afford to work when they get paid. Some people are more tuned into a calendar than others, but everyone has their quirks. When they’re set to go, they’re set to go. They have to understand, to really not think about what they’re doing is true creativity. When they let it flow, they’re not really there. Their instrument is knowing when to stay out of the way of what their body’s doing. When that’s happening, there’s no controlling it. Somebody like Neil, when he feels a lyric, or it’s coming, it’s him responding to that. It just happens.

You’ve got a massive discography. Kiss’ Creatures of the Night album had that real, trademark big drum sound.

Was it something that you heard in demos, or were there empty spaces that you felt could be filled with a big reverb?

It was nothing that intellectual, I’m sorry to say. I’ve always experimented with drums, and at that time, I was working a lot with a guy named [Gary] “Shep” Lonsdale, who’s a brilliant drummer and a drum tech. He was the drum tech for Jeff Porcaro [Toto] at the time. When we were bored, we would go into the back room of Record One and play with different sounds. Like I said, I always practiced. Shep had a lot of interesting techniques for tuning and mic’ing. We were just curious. The story I got from the producer, Michael James Jackson, was that [Kiss’] Gene [Simmons] and Paul [Stanley] had listed all ten of the current top rock records on Billboard. They went to all those studios and those engineers to get a big room sound. They wanted the drums to sound like when they’d stand in front of them in a big room, and they never found it. It was a Sunday morning; they came to Record One, and brought drums with them. I was exhausted. I’d been up all week working on two other records. I was crashed; they got me up, and I went and unlocked the studio. I asked Michael, “What is it that you want?” He said, “We want a Led Zeppelin-style big, ambient room sound.” I said, “If I get you the drum sound, can I go home?” He said, “Sure!” I set everything up with what Shep and I had been doing, and they loved it. They hired me to do the drums, and they hired Shep to tune them. We wound up doing the whole album for them. It was a real gas. I loved working for Gene and Paul. They’re probably the funniest, hardest-working guys I’ve been in the studio with. They’d show up early, leave late, and they work the whole time they’re there. They’re great. The idea was, again, just fulfilling Gene’s adjectives. It was not really hard to do. Gene walked up and stood in front of the drums. He had the guy play, and said, “I want to hear this out of the speakers.” That’s what I did.

How did you end up producing Circle Jerks’ Oddities, Abnormalities and Curiosities?

I got a call from [the late] Sandy Roberton, who was helping their A&R guy. They wanted to go into the studio and try to cut live. There weren’t a lot of guys doing live recording at the time. Everybody was doing lots of overdubs and building records. Keith Morris wanted to sing with the band. They had a ton of energy. We went into The Sound Factory, and I put them all in the main room. There are a couple songs where Keith Morris sang the vocal with his head in an upside-down trash can, because he liked the sound of it. It was that kind of record. We had a really great time.

Do you prefer recording live off-the-floor these days?

Oh, yeah, absolutely. The most challenging thing is when everybody’s playing at the same time, and I am mixing a record live. I try to set the console flat, as a playback function, and I cut everything live. I ride the solos and ride the vocal. It feels great, because there have been so many years of making “Lego block records” that doing one where everybody’s looking at each other and forgetting they’re in headphones is a joy.

We see that in action in Neil Young and Crazy Horse’s Barn film. At one point in the documentary, you say you’re going to submix the drums onto just four tracks.

Barn is an attempt at a 16-track record. The safety, the backup, the digital and all that you can do, we did. There are all the independent outputs, but I’ve never heard them. They’re on a hard drive somewhere. The drums went to four tracks. For each guitar, I think Neil went to two, Nils [Lofgren] went to one, bass went to a track, then vocals, keyboards, rooms, and whatever the song was. I mixed it live, and then we’re done. When I do it that way, what happens is it’s very easy to decide on overdubs or to continue production, because we’re always hearing a finished record. If we decide we want to try some percussion, we’re deciding on a tambourine part against what the record already sounds like. There’s no, “When we get to it,” question. We can make decisions much faster. Then, when we’re finished that day, the record’s mixed that day, and all that happens after that is refinement. We may come back and say, “Oh, I thought the vocal should be a little louder in the second verse.” Then we can open up the session and change it. There are two things that happen: One, it’s very efficient. Two, we capture all the first emotional, intuitive feelings about parts when we mix that way. That’s really easy to do, as long as you’ve done it a whole bunch, so it doesn’t freak you out!

When I interviewed Daniel Lanois [Tape Op #37], he agreed that the rough mix becomes a good snapshot of the day’s work.

There’s no such thing as a rough mix, there are just different mixes. When you get one that you like every time you play it, that’s the one to release. Lanois is brilliant, especially at that. He’s one of the smartest guys I know. He understands. I’ve been a huge fan of his process and his ethic.

Is there anything in particular?

The record he produced for Neil [Le Noise] was one of the most genius things ever. It was such an “of course.” According to Neil’s crew, he put a separate sound in every room of his studio. A different guitar, different headphones, different echo, and everything. He would open the door, Neil would walk in, and whatever Neil felt in that room – in that space, with those sounds – that’s what he would create. It gave Neil full license to explore, and Daniel recorded it. He was there to catch it.

For a music delivery system, are you into the high-resolution world like Neil is?

Absolutely. My favorite way to record and play back is 24-bit at 192 kHz.

I’ve been a big collector of high-res albums for three years now. My collection is huge.

It’s cumbersome now, and that’s why people don’t do it. But as it becomes easier to store and faster to move data, people will go to high-res. Good analog tape is not manufactured anymore, so what we have is a romantic memory. The tape that is manufactured today does not sound as good to me. It sounds sufficient, but I can’t manipulate it. I can’t edit it. It falls apart because of the changes in the petrochemicals that they manufactured the tape with. It’s prohibitively expensive. Out of five reels, two of them might be cut incorrectly when they slit them in the manufacturing. It’s not worth it. The machines themselves, the technologies are sometimes 30 to 50 years old. The pots wear out and capacitors go. It’s not reliable. It is no longer a viable recording medium, in my opinion.

Especially when I have to work fast and I’m trying to capture music in the moment. I can’t be bothered with dealing with different batch numbers and tape that falls apart. In the end, the delivery mechanism – except for a vinyl record – is going to be digital. My job is to learn as much about the digital medium as possible to make it as good as I can, and that’s what I always try to do. I’d rather play back a 192 kHz version of that Radio Shack mic than wait for a tech to arrive to get a Studer to work and get a reel of tape that sort of works, so that I can get an analog recording of an idea that’s already happened. It’s not worth it.

Do you prefer any digital system over the other? Like [Avid] Pro Tools versus [iZ Technology] RADAR?

I’ve used all of them, and all of them have merit. I choose Pro Tools because it’s everywhere, and what I like to do is work. What I don’t like to do is tech. If I have Pro Tools at 192 kHz in just about any studio today, I can walk in and I can start working on the music. If I’m proving a point – by having a fancy A-to-D and D-to-A, a RADAR system, Nuendo, or any of those competitive systems – they’re all good, but I don’t have the patience. I don’t know how to use them quickly! I just want to work.

When you go in as producer, do you have a way of approaching helping them with their songs? Do you help them out with lyrics, or go into melodies?

Certainly, I would help them if they asked. I very rarely offer musical opinions, in terms of writing. If something is blatant, I will wait until we’re done with their idea and ask them to please try something different. Usually that will be constructive editing. I may think that a chorus goes on too long, or we need to get to a chorus sooner. Typically, it’s not my business to tell them what they’re saying or how to sing it. There’s a pile of producers that can do that, and they are artists in themselves. Go to them to help with the music and make a production. I’m not a songwriter/producer. I’m there to help somebody be better at what they’re doing, if I can. I have too much respect for the guys who can do that.

Your mixes make the vocals very clear and they always have a unique presence.

That’s what I start with. So, thanks! That’s all that matters. Record making to me is pretty easy. That’s why it’s embarrassing to do interviews or articles, because so many of the people I’ve learned from are so talented and so much more qualified to do this job. To me, all I hear is the speaker above my head in the vegetable aisle at the grocery store, and all that matters is the backbeat and the lyric with a melody. That’s where I start when I’m helping somebody make a record. I live in the lowest common denominator, and I use the highest quality means to capture it so that there’s a shred of a chance of being fantastic when it gets to the lowest quality denominator. Does that make sense?

That’s all that matters. All we’re doing is trying to “sell a feeling,” as Lamont Dozier said! That’s it. It’s either grooving to me or it’s not. And if it’s not grooving, it’s my job to stick my hand up and say something. If it is grooving, it’s my job to shut up and make sure I can play it back.

Listening to Barn, I noticed there was an intimacy to the mix.

We mixed it in the truck that night for pretty much all of the songs. I went back to the truck for about two days, touched up little pieces, sent it to him, and Neil would listen to it. It was all mixed to a 1/4-inch tape machine, and we were done! The hard part is writing a song, expressing the song, and playing the song all at once, with everybody. Getting everybody in that vibe. The easy part is to stay out of the way and hit record.

When you’re doing a mix, do you step in and do something creative?

Oh, of course. That’s the art of engineering. If something rips my heart out, and I want to make it special, and I have an idea on how to make it special, that’s the gig. That’s the beautiful part. That’s why we do it. It’s fun. One of the best guys to study for creative engineering was Jason Corsaro. If you listen to records from the ‘80s and ‘90s, Jason Corsaro’s sounds were the most innovative, new trailblazing-weird ways to record that made sense for what the music was. Jason worked with Robert Palmer [The Power Station] and Madonna. He never did anything the same way. Whatever the music they were playing, whatever was the first thing he thought of, he would do that. He would grab the microphones and put them in that spot. He’d put a trash can in front of a mic. He’s the best example of what you asked about. He’s always been one of my heroes.

You have a wide list of artists by genre and style.

It’s all the same – it’s music. There is no style of music. Somebody’s either being honest or they’re not. If they’re not, generally it doesn’t come out so well. My job is to not be noticed, and then play back what they’re trying to do.

I get it. What advantages do you see with home recording?

I’ve helped friends engineer at home with FaceTime, looking at what their setup is and hearing the leakage over the phone, and telling them what I would do. Because they’re so comfortable at home, they play with an abandon that’s free. More importantly, they can afford it. A recording studio can be prohibitively expensive. If you get enough money to go in, then [sometimes] you have this sword over your head. Unless you’re a successful artist, you’re more conscious of the time than you are of the creation. I don’t like that. I’m grateful for the luxury that digital gives us. The downside is that there are a lot of “shade tree mechanics,” as I call them. In a lot of the records I’ve mixed, that people have done on their own, there’s a considerable amount of distortion and unneeded clipping and compression. People use gears that they think they need, because they’ve watched a YouTube video or read Gearspace, but they haven’t listened. They’ve just looked. I have to work past that; try to listen to what they were doing and get that back. If there’s ever a time to be creative as an engineer, that’s when we need it – to undo what somebody else has done when they’ve over-processed the sounds.

Drummer Pat Mastelotto [Mr. Mister, King Crimson] told me you like to mix very loud.

[laughs] I love volume. That’s how I work. I love it loud, and it’s fun. Turn it up. When it feels good, print it. That’s about as scientific as I get.

Do record company folks end up bothering you at certain jobs?

If the music is good, everyone wants to be part of it. That’s a flattering thing. If they’re hanging out in the studio and they want to be involved, it’s because we’re doing something that’s moving them. That’s good. The secret is to know how to politely ignore them until we’re finished. Then check in and see how we’re doing with what they need. Ultimately, they’re the ones who have to go sell it. They have to believe in it enough to back it with their word. So, I have to give them respect and credit, and give them enough room so that they’re confident. Without their support, I don’t have a job. “How do we make this great?” is all I should care about.

Is there anything we missed out on, or that’s important for people to know?

What’s important for people to know is that microphones don’t matter. Tape machines don’t matter. Consoles don’t matter. Honesty matters. If you have a real emotion, and you dump your guts in and really play it, people will never forget that. However I play it back [to you] doesn’t matter. That’s the most important thing. Technology is a pale second to what it is that we’re trying to record. We’re trying to record a real feeling, a real message, and a real inspiration. It’s so easy to make something “good enough.”To make something that actually makes a difference in peoples’ lives and lasts. That’s hard. That has nothing to do with the technology. If I could share one thing with anybody who’s coming up, it’s to not believe what anybody else tells them, and to trust their heart. If you mix from your heart, you’re mixing. I learned that from Al Schmitt years ago. He “saved” a track for a friend once. The friend asked him what he did different, and Al said, “Just mix from your heart.”

Nicolay Ketterer’s Interview:

Your recording career started in the late ‘70s, when producer and engineer Val Garay offered you a job and became your mentor.

Val Garay is the reason I exist. He trained me, and he didn’t fire me when he should have! [laughter] If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have half the savvy I have, and certainly I wouldn’t have the philosophical approach to recording that I have. I got it all from sitting next to him for years and years. I had a lot of promise. My approach was sincere, but I was also doing a lot of drugs, because I was very scared and very insecure. Val recognized that the problems I was having were from an insecurity of a personal nature. In that case, he was more like a father. He’d tell me, “Get your shit together or I’m going to throw you out of here.” There was never a situation where I didn’t pay attention and make a mistake – erase vocals or whatever. I always cared. The only qualification I really want from any assistant is that they genuinely care, and they genuinely want to learn. If their attitude is, “I’m trying to do everything right,” that’s all I need. If they get the lunch order correct, maybe I can trust them with selecting ten microphones. People don’t realize that it’s that basic – and it has to be, because what we’re doing is capturing the most elusive muse I know of, between acting and music creation. Those are two genres where the magic happens, whether you want it to or not. Technically, there was nobody better to learn from, for me, than Val, because he was so very hard on me. But it was the best gift he could give me, and he knew it! I never quit him. In the end, he finally said, “You’ve graduated! Go get clients.” I became one of the clients of Record One. I was very proud of that! In my stay there, I was offered several times to go independent, but I would never take the opportunity because I wasn’t done learning.

What is a good way to distinguish whether it makes sense to keep on recording, or when to call it a day?

There are no rules that I know of. It’s intuition – every artist that I ever had the fortune to work with has been different. The only thing I can do is trust my own empathy in going forward. When I feel that it’s not positive, then I figure out how to readdress the next hour, that evening, or approaching it fresh the next day. There are underlying things happening in people’s lives that we’re probably not aware of. Everything; from a sick pet, to family matters, to writer’s block, to their own insecurities, to friction in the band. The more I work with somebody, the more I know what to expect, and if they’re not up to par, then I quietly try to find out why. If it’s better for them to be given an excuse to take a break, then I call for a break and take the blame...

Because they might need that leadership from you?

Yeah, but there’s no leadership when producing an artist. There is coaching. They’re the leaders. The music comes from them. They’re feeding me what is happening, and it’s up to me to try and guide it. The best way I can explain it is this way I’ve always felt: This is the image I had of Don Was [Tape Op #113] as a producer – he’s the bumper guards in a bowling alley. He doesn’t tell anyone how to throw the ball, he doesn’t care about the score, but he just knows that we’re going to be bowling all day. If the ball starts to go towards the gutter, he’s going to knock it back in the lane. The rest of it is up to the person throwing the ball.

I’ve read that Warren Zevon was your inspiration for becoming a producer.

He was one of the first people I produced. I shifted from recording to producing with him. [Producer] Andy Slater asked me to help him produce Warren’s record [Sentimental Hygiene, 1987]. Warren was instrumental in a lot of my life. Since he’s passed, I can break anonymity and say he’s the reason that I got sober in a twelve-step program, because he was such a good input into my life other than just musically. That was the first major record that I produced – I had produced some sessions on my own prior to that – and I got sober! That was the year that I stopped doing drugs and drinking, and everything got a lot better really fast.

I can imagine. Do you like combining producing and engineering, or do you like to keep it separate?

There’s no difference to me. I just do one job – I help make records!

It can be difficult to constantly have to switch between the analytical and the creative sides of the brain.

Yeah, that’s true. But if I’m producing and engineering, then the engineering itself gets produced with my first instincts. From then on, it runs itself. I have a great team – I have a great engineer that I work with, or assistants – and I pay attention to the artist and the music. Case in point: Neil Young. Once we’re set up, nothing changes unless he has an idea. Then, the inner engineer in me will say, “Well, I would do it this way.” I go back to making him feel comfortable as soon as possible. If I’m just engineering, and I’m working for a producer, that’s a luxury! Because then, I get produced as an engineer. I don’t have to worry about if the artist just had lunch, when we should have a coffee break, or if the string charts are correct – all of that’s somebody else’s job. When I’m just engineering, it’s actually easier, and it’s a lot of fun because I get into the art of engineering. But when I’m producing, I use my first instincts.

When you’re an engineer for somebody else’s production: When are you supposed to contribute and when not?

My rule of thumb is if they ask me the first time, and I’ve just met them, I say, “I’m really not sure.” If they ask a second time, I let them have it as succinctly as possible and then leave it. There are already plenty of producers. If they know who I am, and they respect that and they want an honest opinion, I give them a very clear, honest opinion, but I don’t produce it! I’ll just say, “I don’t think the guitar works in open G tuning,” and end the conversation. If they ask me, “Well, how would you do it?” then I’ll say, “Well, that’s a can of worms!” I’ll have to feel out the situation. But, generally, I try to not get involved unless I feel welcomed to and asked more than once.

It’s not fair! All I’ll do is impede somebody else’s thought process. When I work with the drummer Steve Jordan; he’s a brilliant producer. He’s also a brilliant producer of engineering! He studies engineering more than I do. For me to stop his flow of concentration, like saying, “Do you really think it needs a tambourine?” is insulting, a waste of time, and it stops forward motion. I would never do that. I’m there for him to try his overdub ideas, get whatever adjectives he’s explaining, and move on. If he asks me, I’ll tell him! I try to keep the two separate, out of respect. Creative respect is the best gift we can bring to a session, to let somebody else go forward. There is no right or wrong. The best creative force is mistakes. If I get in the way of somebody else going through their mistakes, or their “not good enough” moments, then I’m preventing them from finding what it is they’re looking for.

I’d heard when you were producing Neil Young’s Freedom in 1989, you were into Van Halen, and you wanted synthesizers on the chorus of “Rockin’ in the Free World.”

Yeah. Thank god we shit-canned that idea! [laughs] Like I said, it’s very good to let people make their mistakes. Neil is very much for that approach. He let me try everything that I was thinking. Just listen to it, and you’ll go, “No, it doesn’t work!” We’d never have to wonder – we tried it! I was a huge Van Halen fan; I still am! So, when they were using the Oberheim keyboards, I was listening to that so much. I wanted to use it. But usually everything I do is based off AC/DC and the Rolling Stones! [laughs]

You once called the studio a “time compressor.” That’s a familiar feeling.

It is a time compressor! When I go way in and I’m fully committed, I don’t notice time go by! I can think I’ve been in the studio for one day, and I’ve been working on the same thing for five days! I’ll just leave quickly, to catch some sleep and some food and come back. If you’re not okay with that, or your family is not okay with that, then it’s not going to work. Imagine it like being on a nuclear submarine. You’re going under the polar ice cap, and you’re out of communication for three months!

You’ve said that a lot of records today sound like cover versions of songs that haven’t been recorded yet, because the results are too perfect.

I do feel that way! With the digital tools that we have available, someone can assemble a record like a Lego set, and it will be flawless. Unfortunately, to me, it will have no soul. The records that I love the most are the ones that start with feeling, and then they figure out how to finish the sound. First takes and run-throughs are always your best bet for where it’s supposed to be. With the technology that’s available, young engineers are showing up in studios with digital habits. They haven’t sat in front of a band that’s just playing!

Some musicians who grew up in this digital age may not even be used to recording a song from beginning to end.

That’s very true! The “pro tools” that producers had, up until the last 20 years, were rhythm sections called The Section, The Wrecking Crew, or all the great musicians that were in New York at Power Station. Those players would come in, create incredible parts, and then play them with feel five times in a row. We could pick a take based on the vocal, because what’s underneath is always going to be good. Now people assemble what’s underneath piece by piece, not ever having experienced the fluidity of performing a lyric – and the melody that goes with it – from top to bottom. Then they put a vocal on top of that! You end up with something that is [basically] a cover version, in my humble opinion. Good enough to get by, but it’s not risking real feeling. The whole thing about music that we love – at least music that I love – is risk. When someone sings a lyric and they’re risking, you will never remember that they were out of tune in the chorus. You will always remember that the chorus makes you cry.

A friend of mine was editing a singer/songwriter record, and he figured out that it’s more important to get the timing of the vocal phrasing right than the tuning.

Everything always comes down to rhythm. There are three things in a song: What you want to say, what you want to play, and what you want it to sound like. But if you don’t have the rhythm, there’s no way it’s going to grab or hook a person – that’s why it’s called a “hook!”

How did your “loud and clear” approach to vocals in the mix come around?

I grew up working with singers like Linda Ronstadt, Don Henley, James Taylor, Warren Zevon, Dolly Parton, and Steve Perry [Tape Op #142]. With those singers, everything that they put out there we have to hear. The pocket that Steve Perry sings in is a perfect example of the importance of phrasing. He will sing the last word of the verse to the end of “4,” right before the downbeat of the next verse, because he wants every minute, every second, and every nanosecond of breath and melody to affect you like it affects him. When you record someone like that, it’s very important that they are hearing a great mix that’s going to be what the record is, because they’ll put the phrasing where it belongs for that mix. That’s phrasing is not my job, that’s the singer’s job. My job is to make sure they can do it. Give them the tools.

I spoke with Chuck Ainlay [Tape Op #97] a few years ago, and he said he was surprised to see how many engineers don’t listen to the headphone mixes they send out.

Exactly! Chuck’s right. That’s why he is who he is; one of the best at this. He’s a genius. We can change a singer’s whole pitch focus with a headphone mix, and we can certainly affect their phrasing with how much high end we put in the headphones. We have to pay attention to that.

How would you have a singer change their pitch by changing the headphone mix?

If you have a very chorused guitar, plus a piano track, favor the piano! There’s more of a constituted pitch center. If you put in a lot of bass, sometimes you can drive someone a little bit under [pitch] by the way that their head resonates. Start with a balance that sounds like a good record and then go from there!

The whole tape versus digital debate seems to have calmed down in recent years.

I am embracing the new technology, and our job as this “generation of old guys” is to make sure we teach the old habits that we’ve adopted to the new medium, because otherwise records will sound painful and hard. I’s not the medium’s fault; it’s people not paying attention.

Some people complain that it’s hard getting good drum sounds with digital recordings.

That’s bullshit. It’s very easy to get good drum sounds on anything. Just get a good drummer! I don’t care if it’s digital, tape, a cassette machine, or your iPhone. If the drummer is swinging, you have a swinging drum sound! A poor workman blames his tools. Make the drummer happy and comfortable. They’ll play the hell out of it, and you’ll have a good drum sound. If you want to hear amazing drum sounds, go on YouTube and check out Karen Carpenter [The Carpenters]. That woman played drums better than most people I know. She’s got performances on television shows that were recorded with one mic out of camera range – and it’s the greatest drum sound you’ll ever hear. The sound doesn’t fucking matter, because she was amazing.

Most people don’t seem to understand the balance that a great drummer can bring to the kit.

Absolutely! Ask the drummer what he or she needs. They will tell you what they need in the headphones. Give it to them and let them perform. Listen to Al Jackson, Jr., Karen Carpenter, Gene Krupa, Hal Blaine, or Ed Greene. Listen to Jeff Porcaro playing underneath the mics of a dozen different engineers, on a dozen different records, in a dozen different rooms. It always sounds amazing! We engineers don’t matter! If you take your ego out of something, it will happen. The acronym for ego is “edging god out.” I don’t mean god like, “God.” I mean god as in the muse, the universe, the energy, the life force, and the great spirit. It’s there – and it’s in your drummer, guitar player, vocalist, lyricist, and in the people that are programming the top line. Our job is to get it recorded as soon as it happens, when it happens, and then play it back and stay out of the way. If you edge that out because you want to put your own stamp on it, you’re doing a disservice.

Maybe that’s the hardest thing to learn?

Well, it is when you’re insecure. For years, I thought that I had to contribute something, until I realized the biggest contribution I could make is to let other people contribute. [laughs]

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