Some time ago, I went to Los Angeles to make a record. I had never been to a proper studio in Los Angeles, and the label had asked me to recommend a studio, so I did a little research. I called Mixerman.
The record would be pretty simple, my part of it at least. I had been asked to record the artist playing acoustically and singing, and that's it. No band, no extras, no nothing. Perfect. I am really comfortable recording stuff like this, and have a lot of experience with it. All it really requires is a nice acoustic space and a bare minimum of decent equipment.
A live acoustic session would be simple enough that I could bring most or all of the mics I would need, I could record it on 2-inch 16-track (my preferred format), and I would need no more than a half-dozen channels of a console. All of these conditions conspire to make an almost fool-proof formula, because they place minimal demands on the studio.
I relayed all of this to Mixerman, and he recommended several studios. One of the other people involved in the session had a strong preference for a specific studio (a famous one with a long history), and Mixerman concurred that it should be suitable, so arrangements were made. I am not naming the studio for reasons that will become clear as our story develops.
"One more thing," said Mixerman, in a slightly conspiratorial tone, "Try to find something to complain about. Even a little thing, like a stiff fader or something. They'll buy your lunch for you if you have any problems, and you can do it every day."
Sweet. This is precisely why engineers need to keep in touch with other engineers, to keep them abreast of blue-plate specials like this.
When I arrived at the sudio, I was immediately taken aback at the lavishness of everything. There was not just a parkiing lot, but a valet to park the cars. Parking spaces had printed placards with client names on them. My space didn't, but then, I'm not that famous, and was only going to be there for a week.
The interior decor was startling. I am used to spartan, utilitarian mid-western studios, where the studio is meant to be as un-noticeable as possible. This was, well, different.
I entered our studio (the bulding was a labyrinth of studios, from studio A to, I don't remember, maybe Studio K) through a smallish overdub booth, maybe 12 feet by 18 feet. It was about half-filled with a piano.
There were tapestries, tie-dyed drapes, beaded curtains and christmas lights everywhere. Bowls of chocolate miniatures, fruit and candles (especially candles, what the fuck?) on every flat surface. In the studio, A neat dozen candles sat flickering on the floor surrounding the piano. Candles? What the fuck?
Back when I was young myself, I noticed that young women like to surround themselves with candles, particularly when they take baths, or are entertaining a gentleman caller at night. The studio candles were slightly nostalgic for this reason, and I couldn't help thinking about particular events illuminated in my memory by candle light. This made me a little uncomfortable, because many of them were really dirty.
On closer inspection, all of the walls were faced with giant floor-to-ceiling mirrors, like a mafia bathroom or something, which had been covered with the batik and tie-dye drapes. A tiny room faced entirely with mirrors, while a bold design choice, would both sound terrible and drive everyone insane. The Earth Mama approach, while disorienting, didn't immediately suggest cocaine frenzy.
The control room, while small, was dominated by another couple dozen candles and an enormous console, of a type I had used many times. For the purposes of this session, it was a grotesque overkill, but that didn't matter. If a channel went down, we'd have about 100 spares at hand.
The assistant on the session was attentive and smart, and I felt good about him immediately. I asked him to show me the rest of the studio, and he looked a little puzzled. He gestured toward the client lounge (as large as the control room or the booth I had seen), and said, "there is a restroom..."
Apparently, that one little booth was the studio. The hundred-plus channels of console, two tape machines, dozens of candles and three sofas worth of client space were meant to serve that one little booth.
Okay... Well, we'd better get that piano out of the way then..
(to be continued)