So let's backtrack a little. You started with Wally Heider in LA, right?
Yeah, at what later became Filmways/Heider Recording Studios.
And that was your first gig?
Yeah, I was a guitar player for years. Not a very good one, really. But it took me years to realize I wasn't going to get much better. And I got a job at Wally Heider's, just by beating on the door, to try to stay in music. I'd just done a TV show about sharks, where I was the still photographer and boom man. It was a great experience, going out with the sharks. I got it through this young guy who was the son of the director. He was a sound guy with Nagra. I'd always carried tape recorders around with me since high school, just to record sounds. Walking through hallways, doors closing. And I just loved it. I'd go home and listen to it at night. Sad, but true. [laughs]
Were you thinking about musical applications, or were you just into sounds?
It wasn't really about music, but just noise. I put weird guitar noises to it, synth noises. And I used to love feedback. It was more avant-garde, almost like installation stuff, which I tired of pretty quickly. It got pretty stupid after a while. [laughs] But it was fun at the time. I just loved the sound. It wasn't the music so much. I was never a composer. I just liked sounds. So I met this guy...
The shark guy?
Yeah, great guy; Nick Webster. He used to build robots and go to the Himalayas with his dad to look for the Yeti. And he said, "You know you could get a job. You could be a recording engineer. If you like all these sounds you could just go do it." And I thought, hmmm, really?
How old were you at the time?
About 19. I actually played a session as a guitarist at Wally Heider's and I met an engineer there who told me what I should do and it interested me. So I just went pounding on the door everyday for 2 or 3 months. One day they said, "We need someone to work the equipment room." And then 2 days later they said they needed someone on the phone at night down at the other studio, which was the RCA building in Hollywood. So they took me down there and showed me this set-up. It was a live set-up in this huge room, Studio B, which was a famous old room that Wally Heider had taken over. And it was the Rolling Stones and they were recording what would eventually become Tattoo You.
And what were you doing?
I was just on phones and running for ribs at 2 o'clock in the morning. I was a runner and a janitor. Cleaning up after everyone, you know. It was a great studio to work in. It totally was not about anything technical. It was just about keeping a session going, you know. In fact they didn't want you to learn too much technically. I was caught reading a manual on re-aligning a tape machine and it was taken away from me.
So you were being mentored, but they didn't think technical training was what you needed?
No. They had tech guys for that. As assistant engineer you could record. But not really. Learning how the tape machine worked wasn't where it was at. But they had some really good engineers there. Really old school. But I used to just go and hang out. Everyone was really friendly and the sessions weren't closed. I mean, you couldn't just walk in off the street. But engineers would always say, "Come by if you want to hang out." Because they knew they could get you to do stuff. "Go move that microphone, go get that other microphone, go get us some food." It was really great.
So what sort of things were you picking up at that time that you could use later? When did you get your hands on the board?
The board I got my hands on right away. They used to let me go in after hours. I'd take records in, LPs, and bring them up to the console and mess with EQ, fool around in the patch bay. There was an old harmonizer that I'd used to tape mono records and "stereo- ize" them, it made them really wide. [laughs] Or we'd go into the media rooms where they did only voiceovers and fool with tapes of speeches to make them say rude things. Really horrible stuff. But I loved it. I thought I was Phil Spector.
So you had the opportunity for a great deal of experimentation?
Yeah, I'd just go in and stay up all night playing with a drum machine. I was able to bring people in to record every now and then pretty much right away. There was a guy there named Sherman Keene, who eventually wrote a book that's become a standard I think. He'd hold classes once a week and he'd talk about engineer stuff; fixing machines and things you needed to know for orchestra sessions like figuring out beats per minute. And studio etiquette. His big thing was studio etiquette. He thought that was about 60% — knowing how to make people feel at home.
What techniques did you learn?
Oh, knowing when to speak at the right times, having a studio that looked nice, make sure you have sharpened pencils. And it's all true, that's good stuff. It was a good atmosphere, and that's important.
So how long were you there?
Only 3 years.
So how did you make the transition from that period into a real career as an engineer?
Wally Heider's changed owners. He got really sick, and it was taken over by somebody who ran it into the ground. So I left and got a place called Mad Dog, which was a demo studio down in Santa Monica. Little 16-track demo studio, tiny little closet of a place. But it was another place where the owners were great, really creative. Anyway I worked for them for a while, did people's demos for about a year. And then there was an opening at Sound Factory for an assistant engineer. Phil McConnel, who had been remote manager at Wally Heider's was now the manager of this studio. And he remembered me from the Wally Heider days and asked me if I wanted to be an assistant for this engineer there who had just won a Grammy, David Leonard. He was doing really well and had just moved up from that middle area from assisting to engineering and needed an assistant. And I took the job because it was 4 blocks from my house. I'd just met my future wife, and it just all made sense. And I was there all through the '80s.
And what kinds of things were you recording?
Well [pause, low voice], some pretty bad stuff. I don't remember a lot of it. Sheena Easton recorded there. Greg Mathison productions, he and Trevor Beech used to be in there a lot, and David Leonard did all of their records at the time.
So it sounds almost like you're leading a double life with your fascination for unusual sounds on the one hand, and working on very conventional stuff on the other. At what point did those two worlds, the aesthetically-inclined and the "normal" work, meet?
Well, not for a long time. I started putting binaural sound effects behind some things. I was always into the English progressive scene of the '60s and early '70s — like King Crimson, Van der Graaf Generator, Pink Floyd. And they were doing all that. But it didn't really come together for a long time. I loved distortion and I loved things recorded through mechanical filters; putting up papers, trash cans, boxes. But it didn't seem to fly with most music.
Probably not with Sheena Easton.
[laughs] No. I used to play stuff that I'd do and get a few laughs, "Oh yeah, that's cute." It really wasn't until I met Mitchell [Froom] that I started to use those techniques on commercial recordings. And even then we did a lot of conventional stuff for many years.
Did you work on the Del Fuegos records?
I did one record. He came in and did the first record and that's when we met. And he asked me to do the music for a play for him, to engineer it — over the weekend. We were going to do all the music in one weekend. And he said I could do it any way I wanted to. So I got to do some of my "stuff", you know. And he loved it. And the play went well. It was just a small hole-in-the-wall play, but it was fun to do. So that was our first work together, then he got Crowded House and they went through 3 engineers and fired them all. During the last 2 weeks of the album he asked if I could do it with him, just finish it up. It wasn't any tracking, just overdubs: Vocals, some guitar, re-recorded some bass — which I did. And I got along with the guys really well and had a good time with Mitchell and discovered we had really similar musical tastes. And then he got the next Del Fuegos record he asked me to do it. And that was probably my first real record. That was how it all began with Mitchell and we've been working together almost exclusively ever since.
So it was then that this felt like a partnership that was going to go places?
It didn't feel like a partnership until later. But we knew we liked working together. We had the same sensibilities, with sort of opposite methods.
How so?
He's very meticulous about thinking about things beforehand. And he's really good at it. I don't think I've ever seen anyone as good at it. He's got perfect pitch. So he can always think of chords and notes, and so he can tell somebody (what he's hearing) without going to a keyboard. He'll just sit there and, without even looking at what they're playing he'll say, "You're playing a D? Play this over it." And it will create a cool chord. And that's the way he thinks. He's a composer. He's an orchestrator. He can do it. He's serious. I don't want to know anything before I go into the studio. I like to go in and have people start playing and get a first impression and get the sounds and go with it. Just run with it. If I have too much time to think about stuff I'm in trouble. I like the spontaneity. I like to get a sense of the band and get that caught on record. You can't always do it. There is work and putting your nose to the grindstone, but I want to keep as much of that [spontaneity] as I can. So we really work well together that way. Because he loves to do [his thing], and then I come in and start messing things up. So it's really been a good match. Still is as far as I'm concerned. We're working less and less together these days. But I think it's just a phase. It's a good collaboration.
So at what point did you think that collaborative identity was beginning to gel and come to fruition?
[Los Lobos'] Kiko. We've always sort of distanced ourselves from the music business. It's not because we hate it. It's a brilliant business. And business is business. It's a bank that loans an artist money, and you make agreements with the bank. You have to do certain things if you want more money. And I don't dislike it at all. But I've always distanced myself from it because I don't want to think about it. I just want to be in the studio and hear music, you know? So it hurt us, because we didn't really have any friends in the business. A couple, but not a lot. We usually didn't allow [record company] people to come down to the studio and listen until it was done. We didn't want any input. We just wanted the artists' input and the opportunity to do what we do. And for the artist to say yes or no and let them be the final arbiter of what went on the record. They're the boss. That brought us to the early '90s and we were sort of tired of The records we were doing. Kinda glossy productions. I was never good at it. I hated the sound of all those records. I could never get a really good reverb sound on the snare drum. Every time I heard it I'd wince. And I'd listen to Bob Clearmountain's [#84] stuff and I'd be amazed. It sounded brilliant to me, the way he did "that sound." I couldn't do it. And I was really frustrated and so was Mitchell. So he came in and said, "You know, we're going to do this next record with Los Lobos and we've got to start being happy with what we do. So anything goes. Let's just go back to what we did for the soundtrack for the play. The first thing we worked on together. Let's just do what we do." And they [Los Lobos] were ready for it. They wanted to do something different.
That was a really bold move forward in a new direction for them. Up until then they'd been, more or less, just a really good roots/Mex roadhouse-style band.
Well, the music came from them. And oddly enough, there was just a really good coincidence. The week we started I went into Guitar Center, which I always do. Whenever I start a project I go into music stores and pawn shops, you know; tool stores. See if something catches my eye. Behind the counter was a plastic board and a box sitting on the middle of it. And I could see it had all these little DIP switches on it. I said, " What is that?" And the guy said, "I don't know, it just came in today." It was a SansAmp, the first one. I plugged in a guitar, I plugged in a drum machine, and maybe 10 minutes I sat with it and I said, "Okay. I want 2 of these." And the guy went to look and he said, "We don't have any in stock. It's a demo." So the guy called the company and they didn't have any ready to ship for sale. I ended up contacting [the company] and they got me one and it just changed my life. [laughs] It really did.
And it was designed for electric guitar applications, but you were immediately using it for...?
Drums. It was drums. That's what the drum sound is. Nothing else. It's like, conventionally recorded drums with a little bit of Sans Amp sprinkled on here and there, particularly with the kick and snare on Kiko.
So you don't use it in tracking, but treatment afterwards?
Oh yeah, I track with it. And if I know the band, like I do Los Lobos, I just mix it in with the signal.
You track both a pure signal and a treated signal and blend them in a submix?
Yeah and sometimes I just use the SansAmp track. But with something like Pearl Jam, where I don't know how it's going to go from day to day, I keep them separate.
And what was it about the sound of the SansAmp that attracted you?
Well, there's a funny thing that happens with the sound when you bring it up on certain settings. You just play around with the settings, and there's also just playing with the high-pass filters and the way that alters phase relationships. Even just a high-pass filter with an easy slope from 75Hz down. You just pop that in and the amount that changes things, with distortion, is incredible. So you find a setting that's out of phase. It's not 180 degrees, it's just at a weird place. It would drop the kick an octave. Hit the phase button and it would just go "Ka-BLUMPH". It would just be this "splat" but a really good splat, with a funny little crunch on top, that wasn't a "tick". If it's got some distortion, I can swing with it. If it's just that rock "tick"...uhhh. There's just such a wonderful quality to it, I loved it. I ended up getting another 4 pedals. And I started using it on bass. I haven't used a bass amp on any record since then.
Not at all?
Nope, just direct box through a SansAmp. And everyone I've used it with everyone down to Tony Levin who's... well, he's not a purist, but he's so into his equipment. They're great. I haven't found anything they don't sound good on, except I don't like it on guitar.
Ironically.
Ironically, I don't like it on electric guitar. Acoustic guitar, great on acoustic guitar.
I know you used that combination a good deal on Richard Thompson's stuff.
Richard Thompson, Ron Sexsmith. Flutes, saxes, vocals. You name it.
So I hear what you're saying about what happens with it technically, but in terms of the qualities it evokes, what do you think those sounds do for a listener?
Well, if you judge by sales, it turns them off. [laughs] But if you ask me, I think it makes things more interesting. I just like high contrast. I can't stand it if something's recorded all beautifully. If everything sounds that way it's just like nails on a chalkboard to me. I want to hear contrast. That's what perks my ears up. It's like, in field recording, I like noises. It's always better if there's one little thing that takes you away. Like if there's a jet engine, or a car goes by... it messes you up a little bit. So you actually hear both things better. I do anyway. Well, that happens in the music. You know, you have a really beautiful vocal and a nice guitar sound, and you put this weird bongo or drum sound to it... it sounds like it's going through a pipe — maybe it is, I like to use a mechanical filter. I'd rather have the low-fi sound with a high-fi sound than have it all high-fi. Or all low-fi, where it's all just unbearable to me.
I've heard it said that all good art either takes you to a new place or it takes you to a familiar place and makes you see it in a new way. Maybe the ambitious listener's response to conventional recording technique, as this point, is, "I've been here before," and so the experience is less dramatic.
Well, I don't know. There's a whole world out there that proves my tastes wrong because those [conventional] records are the ones that sell the biggest numbers. Like Celine Dion... Those records and that kind of recording, you know.
Well, perhaps there's comfort to be found in going to those familiar old places. Perhaps that's what those listeners want.
I guess so. There is a reason, I just don't hear it.
So when Kiko was done, I'm sure you could see that there'd been a big leap forward in the sound of the band [Los Lobos] and, it seems, your signature approach as an engineer. How did it feel when that record was done?
Well, good. Because the thing is we made some good friendships on that record. We'd worked with David [Hidalgo] before on a song on an earlier record. And also he'd done overdubs on something else Mitchell had done. So we knew him a little bit. But this was like... we just sort of bonded. And we've stayed that way ever since.
That's evident in your work with Latin Playboys.
Yeah, David and Louie made us honorary members, because you know we didn't really play anything on the records. They're really all David Hidalgo and then Louie wrote all the lyrics and did some singing. And did some playing, but most of it is David. Mitchell was responsible for getting the tape and playing it for me and saying, "Let's take this to Lenny [Waronker] over at Warner Brothers and see what he says." He [Waronker] was, like, our only friend in the music business. And he said, "Let's put it out as a record." And they did. And at that point David said, "Let's have a band. You guys have to be in the band. It's just got to be us." Which was great. I still can't believe it. I'm so happy to be a Latin Playboy. [laughs] So some friendships were made there and we've made all these records since. And it's been great every time.
