Making Records: The Scenes Behind the Music Read online

  What bothered me was that the power I’d seen twice onstage was missing from Billy’s records. A lot of people perform well, but for some reason their dynamic stage presence doesn’t carry over to the recordings. I could tell this was happening with Billy; I told Mickey and Don what I thought, and a lunch meeting was arranged.

  During lunch I discovered that making Turnstiles (released in 1976) had been traumatic for Billy. Over his objection, Columbia had assigned Jimmy Guercio—the wunderkind who’d made a string of successful records with Chicago and Blood, Sweat & Tears—to produce the album. Billy was especially frustrated because Jimmy insisted on recording at Caribou Ranch in Colorado, with Elton John’s band. While Billy adored Elton, he felt that by using Nigel Olsson and the others he was copying Elton’s sound and forsaking his own. He was right.

  After haggling with Columbia and rejecting the Caribou session tapes, Billy remade Turnstiles at Ultra-Sonic Studios in Long Island, producing it himself using the core musicians with whom he’d record and play for the next twenty years: Russell Javors (guitar), Richie Cannatta (saxophone), Doug Stegmeyer (bass), and Liberty DeVitto (drums).

  Although it wasn’t his most well-produced album (by his own admission Billy doesn’t have the inclination or patience to produce), Turnstiles contained some of his best songs, including “Say Goodbye to Hollywood,” “I’ve Loved These Days,” “Miami 2017,” “Prelude/Angry Young Man,” “Summer, Highland Falls,” and “New York State of Mind.”

  I told Billy that I thought his songs were outstanding. Before I said that, I sensed that he was sizing me up to see whether I was bullshitting him or if I actually knew the music. By now I’d seen him perform twice, listened to his albums, and heard the frustrations he’d vented over lunch. I knew exactly what was missing from Billy’s first four records: his band. Billy’s musicians were a tight group, musically and personally. Until he remade Turnstiles he’d been forced to use studio musicians who lacked the intensity of what I’d seen the Billy Joel band do onstage.

  Was Billy’s group perfect? No—but that’s what I loved. They were a real band that worked together night after night, playing his music with passion. As Liberty DeVitto has fondly said, “We were a garage band, arranging songs as we played them—on the spot.”

  It was the unconstrained energy of Billy’s live gigs that had hit me between the eyes, and that’s what I wanted his records to reflect. I knew we could keep him in a live studio setting and still make vital rock-and-roll records. He showed me some of the new songs he was writing, we committed to making an album together (The Stranger), and our partnership was born.

  Here’s the twist: although I didn’t know it at the time, Billy was also auditioning me. Producer George Martin was also under consideration. Why was I chosen over the distinguished Sir George, better known as the “Fifth Beatle”? Years later Billy told me that like his previous producers, George wanted to use session musicians, and not the guys in Billy’s band. Every so often, luck is on your side!

  TRACK 6

  Getting to Know You

  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 piani
st, 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.

  Dealing with tantrums or other temperament issues—whether it involves an artist, musician, or member of my crew—isn’t pleasant, and handling them sensitively is the secret to turning them around. While there’s no specific technique I use to restore tranquility, speaking calmly and letting the other party know how I feel is always the starting point. Then, I probe to find out why they’re frustrated.

  If the issue concerns one of the assistants or engineers in the control room, I advise them to take a break, and not return until they feel they can maintain their composure and focus on the job at hand. I simply can’t allow anyone to disrupt a session or distract the artist while they’re working on the other side of the glass.

  If an 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 control room. 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 first called 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.