Studio Life: The Other Side of the Tracks

By Mr. Bonzai

Join the crew at Ryan Recording – Mr. Bonzai, Cart, Layla and Smilin’ Deaf Eddie – as they struggle for respectability and profits in the music industry. It’s a satiric and whimsical journey through the hidden world of recording, filled with colorful characters and bizarre sessions. Illustrated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483538860

Book preview

Chapter

GRACE NOTE

I think of the recording studio as a musical campground for gold-oriented troubadours and other cultural activists. I remember the time when that aging European pop star made a victory visit with a case of champagne and a limousine full of Italian cheerleaders… and that proud Las Vegas lounge crooner who drove off with five thousand albums in a U-Haul trailer, crying, Grammy, here I come!

The music industry is still in a wild Golden Age where millions may be spent on one record, perhaps to be made back tenfold. The recording studio is a guarded hideaway where the stars shine and then let their hair down between takes. It is where the young hopefuls will do anything to make a record—and where the old hands will often let them. Studio life is pressure-cooked and vacuumpacked.

My destiny was crystallized many years ago when good fortune and inspired persistence brought me to the Abbey Road studios for a Magical Mystery Beatle session. My first step into that studio led me to a kaleidoscopic montage of space age electronics and recording gadgetry, rows of ornately carved keyboard instruments, mounds of soggy fish and chips, and the private premiere of guaranteed smash hits before release to the public. Seeing John and George sitting on the floor, plucking their guitars and telling jokes about Eric Burdon made me lust for the hidden studio side of music.

I think of the recording studio as a musical campground.

Years later, while vacationing in a little beach town south of Los Angeles, I chanced on an article in the local paper about the opening of a new recording studio. I made a phone call to the owner and learned that his bitchy studio manager had just walked out. I was invited down for an interview and we got on well. Our combination of musical backgrounds, technical skills, promotional ideas, and gung ho attitudes seemed to indicate a healthy potential. From our first meeting I knew there would be room to explore and develop an interesting business, to live life toward creative ends. Two years and thousands of sessions later, my fantasies had been stretched like Jimi Hendrix’s E-string.

Don’t believe it or not, but…

JUST MANAGING

Managing a recording studio means stuffing your psychology degree into your shoulder holster, rolling up your sleeves and striking a friendly John L. Sullivan pose. Being prepared for the worst, you might be able to survive the bouncing check, the deals on spec, and accounts deceivable. I don’t mean to paint an unsavory image of the studio business, but it is a world filled with strange sidelights and unpredictable characters.

As I begin this memoir here in the front office at Ryan Recording, I am wedged between Johnny Terrific’s spare drums and Tumi Zorgath’s Monster-Module synthesizer. Things are a little tense due to a few minutes of dreaded downtime. This is like an unscheduled pit stop for a Formula One racer: endless moments of impotence while waiting for your stalled vehicle to get back on the track.

Fortunately, our maintenance man lives on the premises. This assures us of 24-hour security as well as prompt administration of solder, or whatever it takes at whatever hour to fix whatever went wrong. Eddie had once been a famous recording engineer and had become quite popular with record executives for his enthusiastic motto, It’s a take! Sadly, though, his reputation for speedy recording sessions became suspect when it was discovered that his hearing was slowly deteriorating as a result of an early Led Zeppelin session. Soon known as "Smilin’ Deaf’ Eddie, his career declined into obscurity.

Despite his damaged reputation, we recognized his unique electronic abilities and offered him a job in our maintenance department. Eddie is content these days to modify and service our equipment (a never-ending battle against electronic gremlins) and live in relative comfort in our workshop. The sight of Smilin’ Deaf Eddie strolling to the rescue in his bathrobe and slippers never fails to bring a smile of relief to every face. He’s an eccentric angel of goodness who watches over our studio.

Cart Ryan is the owner and chief engineer of Ryan Recording. Though only 22, he is already justly famous for his bold recording style. His drum sound has been likened to a fleet of limousines backfiring in the Grand Canyon; if you listen carefully you can hear his famous phantom snare haunting many of your favorite records. And, as studiophiles know, the Ryan piano sound has melted the hearts of rock stars and classical musicians alike.

Rounding out our staff is Layla, an aspiring engineer who assists on sessions and serves as our receptionist. A key player on the Ryan team, with all the delightful attributes of a rock ‘n’ roll fantasy, Layla is always surprising us with her natural technical instinct. Too, there’s something especially comforting about having a woman reposition your microphone; a woman cuts the harsh electronic edge that can upset the mellow ambiance so vital to the making of successful recordings.

The session in progress, now stalled in downtime, is a simple radio commercial for Burger Boss. There are four account executives, a copywriter, a producer and three bigwigs in the studio, all being driven crazy by the nonstop smoking, gumchewing and name-dropping of the announcer, Hollywood deejay Jerry Jaws. Not far away, Stan The Man Stanley of the Lockwood, Hines, and Stanley ad agency, is arguing with one of the Burger Boss representatives over the proper delivery of the hook line, We put our best meat between the finest buns.

The experienced studio manager knows that sensible booking policies are important in maintaining a smooth operation. Leave adequate time between sessions to clear out the debris of one client and set up for the next. Not only will you save yourself the embarrassment of overlapping sessions, but you give the engineering department time to perform a little preventive medicine.

Still, Murphy has his ways. Our next client arrives an hour early, compounding the chaos. Rocky Ed Crockett, a cosmic dude to say the least, has been around for years, but remains relatively unknown to the general public. His biggest claim to notoriety is that he produced Howard Van Winkle’s novelty hit, A Sheep at the Wheel. Rocky is branching out as a solo dance-rock artist these days and is being handled by Clyde Eastman. Clyde is clad in a green pin-striped jumpsuit and arrives with Rocky’s wife Christina (heiress to the fabulous Zeller-Brown toilet paper fortune) in tow. Add four roadies and a handful of groupies to this high-powered recording team and we have an emotional jam session fueling the nervous tension of our embarrassing downtime.

Rocky appears to be taking the delay calmly, but when he cocks his coonskin cap on the back of his head and mutters snidely about professional studios, I start feeling the uptight vibes in abundance from ad people and rockers alike. I try to ease the tension with shaggy-dog stories of horrible sessions I have known. No dice. I suggest a little recreation and point to our game room, complete with pinball, air hockey, ping pong, and hula hoops. No takers. Layla parades around with a tray of herb tea, coffee and Perrier. Nothing seems to work.

The agency has to have the commercial finished and on the air within hours. Rocky Ed is snortin’ like a bull to record Disco Doody, his danceable version of the old Howdy Doody theme song. After formally introducing everybody to each other, I excuse myself to find out what’s happening in the control room. There I find Cart playing hunt-and-peck with the more than four thousand buttons on our new automated Super Sonic II mixing console.

What seems to be the problem? I ask.

Cart shrugs and looks up at the ceiling. Listen to this. He plays the commercial and I can barely recognize Jerry Jaws’ fevered pitch for 1000% lean, textured beef.

It sounds like a parrot with emphysema, I tell him. Let’s get Eddie in here and get this session rolling pronto!

I tear out of the control room, intercept Layla and send her off to awaken Eddie. Luckily, Rocky and Jerry have discovered that they are old friends from Berkeley and are entertaining the impatient clients just like they did at the People’s Pep Rallies. Moments later, Eddie stumbles through the lobby in his bathrobe, waving and smiling. The raucous levels drop to zero dB.

I quickly usher Eddie into the control room and close the airlock so I can yell loud enough to make him understand the gravity of the situation. He looks calmly at the console, asks Cart a few questions and informs me that it will take about three hours to check out all the power supplies—or I can try to fix it temporarily.

Things are