Making Records: The Scenes Behind the Music Page 3

  Our first test was filming a nightclub scene at a small club in Pasadena.

  All of the action—including a fight scene between John Norman Howard and a club patron—occurred in real time, meaning it wasn’t patched together from multiple takes. Recording it live as it happened—Barbra singing while two men argued and fought in front of her—was surreal. We felt confident that what we’d captured would quell the uneasiness of the executives at Warner Bros.

  When the studio bosses saw the footage the next day, they applauded. While they marveled at our success and approved the concept of recording live-to-film, they insisted that Barbra prerecord everything too—for insurance.

  Much of the film was shot on location in Arizona, and a setting for one of the movie’s key scenes, a rock concert, was Arizona State University’s Sun Devil Stadium. Instead of mocking up the set and using extras for the audience shots, film producer Jon Peters hired legendary concert promoter Bill Graham to stage a genuine rock-and-roll fest featuring five acts, including Peter Frampton and Carlos Santana.

  The audience consisted of students and others from the surrounding area, each of whom paid $3.50 for admission. The plan was for each of the rock groups to play their sets, with Barbra and Kris Kristofferson filming their songs in between.

  Bill Graham was a savvy stage producer, and he paced the show brilliantly. He also covered all of the ancillary bases. He knew that at large-scale events kids get sick, people become overheated, and drugs are consumed. To minimize problems, he set up medical stations, placed showers along the sidelines, and warned the audience about the possibility of some bad acid being passed around.

  At midnight, a crowd of university students began streaming into the stadium. The weather was perfect; at dawn I played the Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun,” and the patrons—anticipating an eventful day—cheered.

  By seven a.m., the first band—the L.A. Jets—hit the stage and juiced everyone up. Then came Graham Central Station. Around nine, Barbra appeared and kibitzed with the crowd. “We’re gonna rock and roll today,” she yelled. “And we’re gonna be in a movie!”

  Barbra wanted the audience to understand the technicalities behind filmmaking, so she sang “The Way We Were” to a taped instrumental track. “That’s the way it’s usually done in Hollywood,” she said. “But I don’t want to lip-synch—I want to sing live, to you.” She proceeded by belting out an electrifying version of “Woman in the Moon,” backed by her band.

  When it came time to shoot Barbra’s first scene, the crew was nervous. Could recording everything live work in this situation? Would the audience behave, despite the long hours and the heat? Would we get the sound and picture quality we needed? The set was prepared; the audience in place; the crew ready to roll.

  Everyone was intensely focused. Some of us were on pins and needles, knowing that singing in front of large crowds wasn’t easy for Barbra. We watched carefully for last-minute jitters. We needn’t have worried; the performance of “Woman in the Moon” she gave for the cameras was a triumph.

  Anyone who’d been skeptical of Barbra’s professionalism was won over after that. The cast and crew admired the way she handled the concert and the audience, and told her so.

  After the second break, she came out and again spoke to the crowd. “In this film I speak the language of rock and roll,” she explained. “Aren’t you having a great fucking time?” They went nuts.

  To lead into Kristofferson’s first scene, Barbra offered the audience some direction. “This is a concert where you’ve been waiting two hours for him to show up. When he comes onstage, you should boo him. But when he starts singing, settle down and become the fans who’ve always loved him.” When Kris came onstage, they booed the hell out of him. When they calmed down, he performed “Watch Closely Now.”

  After noon, Santana played their set and Barbra previewed “Evergreen,” a ballad she’d written with Paul Williams. “I’ll be crushed if you don’t like it,” she said. The crowd ate it up, and shooting continued until well after six p.m. Montrose and a new sensation from England named Peter Frampton closed the show.

  Five days of work culminated with a massive concert that went off far more smoothly than anticipated.

  Our next stop was the setting for the film’s seven-minute, twenty-second climax: the university’s Grady Grammage Memorial Auditorium, a historic building designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. As before, there would be an audience. After the concert shoot, this will be a snap, I thought.

  As the plot evolves, John Howard becomes so depressed that he commits suicide, and in the final scene, Esther sings for the first time in public since his death. She begins with a ballad (“With One More Look at You”) then segues into “Watch Closely Now”—one of Howard’s songs that she discovered on a cassette tape after he died.

  The finale was a long scene by any standard; where most actors would balk at a director wanting to shoot one continuous take, Barbra insisted on it. The way she handled Esther’s transformation from grieving lover to confident star was inspired. Still, I felt unsettled about the take we had in the can.

  Before leaving the Grammage, I watched the videotape of Barbra’s finale. As wonderful as it was, it lacked the scintillating spark that I’d seen before in her acting. While I doubted she would consider reshooting the scene, I decided to let her know what I thought after she’d had the chance to relax.

  At nine that night I saw her at the dailies—the cast and crew’s preview of the footage shot the day before—and seized the opportunity. Here’s where honesty and trust come into play.

  “How are you doing, Phil?” Barbra asked. “What did you think about today’s scene?”

  “Well,” I began, choosing my words carefully. “I thought it was fine. But something’s missing. I think there’s a better one in you.”

  I wasn’t lying. I knew that if Barbra dug a bit deeper, she could really show the character’s reach for strength. “The set’s still there for tomorrow morning’s pickup and cutaway shots,” I offered.

  As I expected, Barbra disagreed.

  “Are you out of your mind?” she asked. “The take worked—we’re done.” I couldn’t argue—the take had worked. But seven minutes is a long stretch for any performer, and I didn’t want to forego our last chance at getting a truly gut-wrenching performance.

  Barbra and I knew each other well, and on some level I knew she must have understood what I meant. Although I didn’t belabor the point, I implored her to think about redoing the scene.

  Sure enough, a little while later there was a knock at my door. A production assistant had come with a message from Ms. Streisand. “You have an eight o’clock call on the theater set—we’re shooting the ending again.” I smiled. Barbra just couldn’t ignore the possibility that she could do it better.

  And she did.

  The next morning’s performance had the gutsy confidence that Barbra is known for; the scene delivers everything one desires of the ultimate moment in a dramatic film.

  What gives a producer the freedom to trust him- or herself, and to convince an artist like Frank Sinatra or Barbra Streisand that they should trust him too?

  There are many qualities and skills that successful producers share: musical, technical, and performing experience; a knack for working with people; diplomacy; and above all, a passion for music and the recording arts.

  Although it sounds cliché, there’s no substitute for experience.

  When I began my career in the studio, I listened and watched more than I talked. My training came from engineers such as Bill Putnam and Bill Schwartau, and producers such as John Hammond, Jerry Wexler, Tom Dowd, Ahmet Ertegun, and Milt Okun. As mentors, they taught me to engineer and produce the same way that they’d learned—by doing.

  The men who influenced me were masters of their craft. Their work ethic, attention to detail, and high standards affected me deeply. What I saw in them became the blueprint for the way I work.

  While I became familiar with the
ins and outs of recording, the most valuable lessons I learned as an apprentice related to the social aspects of engineering and producing: respecting an artist’s opinion, making suggestions and disagreeing in a tactful way, and resolving emotional and technical crises in the studio swiftly and effectively.

  Whether dealing with an artist or a business associate, conscientiously tending to the personal details goes a long way toward engendering trust. A case in point was my professional relationship with the late Morris Levy, the rough-around-the-edges owner of Roulette Records.

  It was the early 1960s, and my studio (A&R Recording) was fairly new and scraping to make ends meet. Roulette, a small label that made explosive rock-and-roll and jazz records, was one of our clients. I particularly loved the Count Basie and Sarah Vaughan sessions I engineered for them.

  The gag around town was that Morris Levy never paid list price for anything, nor did he pay on time. One afternoon my business partners called me in. “Hey—we’ve got to collect from Roulette. Go over to Morris’s office and ask for a check.” With all of my youthful innocence I strolled into Morris’s office, sat down, and politely explained to him that A&R really needed the twelve thousand bucks that Roulette owed us so we could pay our bills.

  Morris was affable and relaxed; we conversed and had a good laugh about the business. Then, Morris called for his secretary. “Bring me the A&R invoice and the checkbook,” he asked. He glanced at the invoice, wrote the check, and said, “You do good work—thanks.”

  On my way back to the studio I unfolded the check, and to my chagrin saw that Morris had created his own discount. He’d only paid us eight thousand dollars! When I got back, everyone applauded my courage. What’s the big deal? I thought. Our meeting was unremarkable; we were simply two adults treating each other with respect.

  Dealing with Morris was never dull, but he was always cordial to me. After that meeting he’d drop by the studio whenever there was a Roulette session, and compliment my work. And the studio always got paid something—even if it took a while to collect.

  Because I was young and inexperienced, my one-on-one with Morris Levy didn’t unnerve me. But, my heart was in my throat during a session at which Atlantic Records producer Tom Dowd modeled the way to calmly handle an impending disaster in another area of my life—the control room.

  We were recording the double jazz quartets of Ornette Coleman and Eric Dolphy, and Tom arranged the two groups facing each other, placing the microphones in between. I cued up a four-track tape machine, and we began recording.

  As any music fan knows, jazz is all about improvisation—and beboppers like Coleman and Dolphy were renowned for their abstract, impressionistic approach to a melody. Well, the first piece the group played just went on and on. Ten minutes, eleven minutes, twelve minutes. We were all getting lost in the endless barrage of solos when I realized that we only had three minutes left on the reel of four-track tape.

  If the solos continued unabated, the tape would surely run out before the band was finished. I was contemplating how to reload without losing too much of the performance when Tom looked toward the tape machines. I didn’t have to explain; Tom’s intuition and experience made him a quick study. His eyes darted around the room, and he spotted the two-track Ampex recorder that I used for mixdowns sitting off to the side. Luckily, there was a fresh reel of tape on the machine. “Get that two-track going!” he said.

  As the second recorder started, Tom nimbly fed the mix from the four-track to the two-track. It wasn’t the ideal way to make a transition, but since Tom’s live mix was so good there was no loss of quality, and we captured the entire performance without interruption.

  I was embarrassed that I hadn’t caught the problem sooner, and the smooth, proactive way that Tom Dowd responded—to the problem, and to me—became part of my modus operandi.

  I didn’t think much about the Coleman-Dolphy date until years later, when an assistant engineer fumbled during a session I was doing with Guns ’n Roses guitarist Slash. It was an error I still shudder over.

  We were taping a segment for a tribute to Les Paul in Studio B at Electric Lady, the New York studio designed and built for Jimi Hendrix in 1970. Slash was in a jovial mood, his fingers blazing over the strings of the Les Paul Standard under his command.

  The guitarist’s playfulness was contagious; drummer Kenny Aronoff’s ferocity behind his kit pushed the rhythm of the song to a whole different level. Sensing that we were headed for a peak moment, I asked the assistant to change tapes. It should have taken a minute—or less.

  Like the musicians on the other side of the glass, I was lost in the music. I turned to my left, gazing at the spools of tape rewinding at top speed. I froze.

  The tape shouldn’t be rewinding like that, I thought.

  To my dismay, the assistant had taken it upon himself to rewind before reloading the machine with fresh tape, and we’d lost some of the performance.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “I told you to change reels!”

  The assistant’s face flushed. “Oh, I’m sorry—we rewind before changing tapes here,” he mumbled. “It’s our studio’s policy.”

  Anyone who works with me regularly knows that rewinding tape before you change reels is not the thing to do.

  One can’t predict when inspiration will arrive, and those few minutes might have represented Slash’s finest playing ever on that song. The hot guitar licks, lightning-fast drum fills, and unbridled energy I heard in the first take had passed, and we hadn’t captured it.

  When he heard what had happened, Slash was beside himself. Like us, he knew that we’d lost something elusive and magical.

  Moments like this are terrifying. There’s nothing more humbling than having to tell a musician that they’ve got to do a retake because you (or someone on your crew) was careless. In this case, I kicked myself for not being more explicit in my presession instructions; doing so would have reduced the tension and stress that those around me probably felt.

  Ideally the producer, engineer, and crew should keep stress at a minimum, and away from the performer. Everything we do should be invisible to them.

  Interrupting the flow of a session to say, “Excuse me—we’ve got to fix a microphone,” or, “Sorry, the board hiccupped” is like blocking the path of a marathon runner in the last quarter-mile of a race. There were many times during sessions when I’d go out into the studio—while the band was playing, and the recorders rolling—to adjust a guitar amp, or upright a mike stand that had fallen over.

  A bit of thoughtful, presession planning can go a long way toward avoiding embarrassment and give you the chance to recover from a sudden crisis. I learned the importance of preparation early on from two of the best teachers: Quincy Jones and Frank Sinatra.

  Quincy and I became close in the late 1950s. He had played trumpet in Lionel Hampton’s big band, written arrangements for Count Basie, and in the early 1960s became the director of artists and repertoire at Mercury Records—the first African American to hold such a position at a major label.

  In recent years, “Q” has earned a reputation as a musical thoroughbred: a musician, composer, arranger, and producer. He’s a splendid teacher who radiates warmth and spirituality that’s rare, and I gleaned much of what I know about friendship, treating an artist well, and recording a big band from watching Quincy work in the studio.

  In 1966, Quincy was arranging and conducting for Sinatra and the Count Basie band, and he invited me to see them perform at The Sands in Las Vegas. It was a classic event; everyone donned their best formal wear, but I had to fake it with a business suit ’cause the only tux I had was the one I shared with Quincy, and it was onstage with him.

  With Quincy Jones and songwriter Tony Renis, Milan, Italy, 1964 Phil Ramone Collection

  Basie’s orchestra opened the show and swung their asses off. After intermission, Sinatra’s rhythm section joined them on stage. Quincy kicked off the band, and a deep voice boomed from the PA system. “The Sands is
proud to present a man and his music…the music of Count Basie and his great band—and the man is Frank Sinatra!”

  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).