I heard years ago that you were a Tape Op reader. Am I correct?
Oh, yeah. I still get Tape Op. I told these publicists, “Your one directive is to get me in Tape Op, and then you will have effectively earned your money.” [laughs]
Well, there you go. It was worth it!
Yeah. I directed a movie years ago called No Way Jose in which I played a musician, and my friend Caitlin, she's a musician, and her husband John were in the movie – he's a musician too.
Oh, the Gutenbergers! They both used to work for Tape Op.
Yeah. She gave me a whole bunch of Tape Ops that are scattered all throughout the movie. We're in New York now, so we haven't seen them in quite a long time. They're great people.
Totally. I was in the studio years ago, and one of my clients said, “You’ve got to see this film (Untitled)” that you were in.
I'm super proud of that.
That's one of the coolest art versus commerce films I've ever seen.
Yeah, I love that film. That was such a fun character, and we got to go to Philip Glass' studio [The Looking Glass Studios]. I’ve always been into Steve Reich [Tape Op #15] and Philip Glass. But I didn't know quite as much about that kind of real out-there minimalist music. It was fun to do a deep dive and then get to play a fucking crazy asshole! [laughter] Some of my gear is in that movie, like some [Electro-Harmonix] Memory Man and Moog pedals and shit that I brought with me.
When you were portraying this avant-garde musician, did it help that you actually play music?
A little, but the character's a better musician than me. He's supposed to be a classically trained pianist, so there's a lot of bluffing that goes on there. But the sampling was relatable, so that was easy to get into. The basic premise of being such a purist is something that has, in a way, probably been a little self-defeating. It's definitely a thing that has consumed me, and maybe to my commercial detriment to some degree.
With music and film?
I guess. I don't know. Music to me is: I do what I can do, and it just happens to be whatever it is. There's no real ideology. I find that it's more of an impediment when I write. As a writer of screenplays and such, I find myself really self-editing. Sometimes, I won't write anything just because it's not up to my standards. I thought I was going to be a filmmaker when I was a teenager. I've written or co-written and directed three movies, but I assumed that's what I would be doing. I think part of it is that it's very hard to make a movie, especially one that breaks through. It's hard to make a movie that you even like. But I have found that I'll be thinking about writing something, and before I'm even at the fifth page, some combination of self-loathing and a dogmatic, puritanical, artistic self-consciousness shuts me down. Like, “If I would criticize this, then I shouldn't write it.” My friends think that I'm very hard on media, the movies, or whatever, but I'm no harder on it than I am on myself. But that's not necessarily a good thing. I probably should be more forgiving.
I'm sure you find that with music you have to have the doors wide open at first, and then edit or critique.
Yeah, 100 percent. This new record [When the Ships of My Dreams Return] was particularly challenging because there was no sounding board at all. In the past, there had been at least one other person; and in this case, there was no one. Having so much to do technically kept me distracted enough that I didn't have as much bandwidth to worry about the artistic stuff. I'm not saying it's a good thing, but it got me through the process. There are parts of this which are up to some artistic standard I have, whereas there's music that I've done in collaboration with other people in the past that I prefer, probably because there was somebody else there and I wasn't worrying about all the technical details. But, having said that, I would go to bed each night wondering if I should even be doing this. I was split in so many different directions that one part of me couldn't overwhelm the other part, in terms of criticism.
When we're constantly learning, like the technical side of this, there's a beneficial aspect of that for our brains.
Totally. This whole thing was never like, “I want to be a rock star.” But I’ve always liked recording, and I'd always played music. I played drums when I was a kid, but I didn't really learn guitar. I didn't start writing songs until I was in my early twenties. In 1993, I bought a BOSS digital delay pedal, a 4-track TASCAM [cassette recorder], a Mexican [Fender] Stratocaster, and a small practice amp. I realized pretty early on that it was really recording that I enjoyed; fucking with the tape and reversing shit, and what the wah-wah pedal sounded like when there was nothing playing. I got heavy into Sonic Youth, so it was always more about sound, happy accidents, and being on this autodidactic journey. There were periods where I had a band, but I never felt that comfortable doing it and it wasn't really what I wanted to sound like. I did a demo in earnest at some point in the ‘90s and never really gave it to anybody – again, it wasn't really what I wanted to sound like. It wasn't until I started to sound like what I liked that I thought, “I’ll put this out.” That was many, many years later. The first time I put any music out was when I directed the film I Love Your Work in the early 2000s. I had become pals with Steven Drozd of The Flaming Lips, and there was a musical element in the film; sort of an ode to The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. A film within the film, with a musical sequence. I had written a song with this band that I had met in Los Angeles, Black Pine, and I was recording a lot of music with them. We had our own band called The Room, but they had their own thing. With them, I recorded some of the music that needed to be available by the time we shot to use for playback. I had done a bunch of these weird loops that I created with loop pedals. Steven Drozd would come into the studio where we were doing post-production, and we would orchestrate it using Reason. Other than piano I don’t know that we had any real instruments, but there was this real orchestrated quality to it.
When did that lead to your solo albums?
A couple years later, I had accrued enough music that I finally felt comfortable with – between some recording with Black Pine, with Steven at Trent Bell’s studio [Bell Labs Recording, Tape Op #6] in Norman, Oklahoma, and new stuff with Aaron Espinoza [#43] at his studio, The Ship – to put out my first record, under the LANDy moniker [Eros and Omissions]. This new record began as more of an experiment. I was thinking, “Can I do it, from soup to nuts?” It began with just a USB interface and a 500 Series [module], but now I'm looking at this whole studio. In 2020, I came to New York to do The Equalizer, which was shooting in New Jersey, not far from where we were staying. It was the pandemic; we were renting a house here, and we had a house in L.A. My kids began to grow up here and the show kept going – it got canceled recently – but by that point we'd sold our house in L.A. I hadn't been playing music in a long time. I had kids and didn't have the bandwidth. The last record I put out [Home: A Nice Place to Visit] was a book, an LP, and a photography show. I’d used up many of what I thought were the most worthwhile of all of the hundreds of demos I had done over the years. I had all my shit in storage in Los Angeles, so bit by bit I started putting something together here and recorded some things. I called Aaron Espinoza, “I want a good channel strip. What do you recommend? I'm looking at 500 Series stuff.” He's like, “Do you have a 500 rack?” I was like, “Oh, no. Do I need that?” I didn't know the difference between that and regular rack gear! [laughs]
Yeah!
I started with a little three-unit lunchbox, and then one thing led to do another. I was going to outsource the drums to one of my pals – the drummer in Midlake [McKenzie Smith]. Then I was like, “Can I get a good drum sound?” I'm always obsessed with the snare sound, like everybody is. I'm not saying I got there at all, but trying to do it turned out to be the thing that was the most fun. Then I needed many more ins and many more outs [for the interface]. Cranborne Audio had just come out with this incredible system [the 500R8], and I have three of them. I started filling up these [500 Series] units. I had always seen people use compressors, but I wanted to understand it. I had a “no plug-in” dogma – in the very end, I finally used plug-in de-essers.
Plug-in de-essers are honestly better. Are you committing to sounds on the way in? You've got that Cranborne, which can even mix tracks together as you're recording.
I recorded almost everything, and then I would go back and think, “Well, that fucking sucks.” I started rerecording each track and mixing as I went. I would start to commit stuff. Some of these songs have been recorded twice. When I would record a mix, that was when I was committing.
It's interesting, because there's a gain and a loss to collaboration, or lack thereof.
The last few times I did this, I did it in Los Angeles in my garage studio, which was more music gear than it was recording gear. I had a USB interface. Andrew Lynch – who worked with Aaron at The Ship and also was in Earlimart and part of Black Pine – would come over and we would record me. Sometimes, he would play trumpet, my wife [Roxanne Daner] would play violin, or my friend Merritt [Lear] would play violin. Then Andrew would go away and mix. At the end, I'd go over to his house and we'd go over the mixes together. It was always a bit mystical to me, and I liked it that way. He's a talented musician, and he certainly knows what he's doing as an engineer and as a mixer. I'm extremely proud of these two records that I did with him [Home: A Nice Place to Visit, Stranger’s Morning] and the work I did with Aaron. The eponymous Goldberg Sisters’ album sounds like a proper record; Aaron is an extremely talented guy. I’d get all kinds of benefits from these people, but with When the Ships of My Dreams Return, I was trying to see how close I could get. I didn't have to pay anybody, I didn't have to worry about anybody's schedule, and I could be as grouchy as I liked!
I went back and listened to Home… and then listened to When the Ships of My Dreams Return, and they’re not dissimilar sounding. But through all the collaboration, I imagine you learned what worked and didn't.
There's no doubt. I'd always recorded and was fairly facile with software, but in terms of how mics are placed? I found myself rarely amping guitars, because it's not necessarily a sound that I love. I like everything close and into the board, and I learned that from doing that with those guys.
A lot of the tones you're getting are not bright. I'm not saying this in a critical way, but there's a warmth and a darkness to it. I saw you have Coles [4038 ribbon microphones] on the drums, which are going to give an amazing impact but not a shrill top end.
Oh yeah. Everyone's always saying, “Those mics take EQ great.” I’m asking, “Why are you EQ’ing them?” I like the sound. I put them on the piano too. I bought a 4-track reel-to-reel. I was thinking, “Should I do some on tape?” In the end, I was trying to get something that felt close to tape saturation and harmonic distortion, and that's what this Cranborne gear does well. I ran everything through these Cranborne [Carnaby 500] EQs on some of the pre-mastering that I did.
The final mix?
Yeah. It's funny, because I listen to it and I think, “Oh, shit. That's too bright.” The one thing I do let go is mastering. Mark Chalecki [Little Red Book Mastering] has mastered all my records. He worked at Capitol Studios; he's like an old school guy. He’s got great ears. He was the first person to hear any of this album. I was sending him mixes a little bit early, just to ask, “Am I in the ballpark?”
Mixing can be the scariest part.
Oh, I was terrified. It was like going to an audition. I realized I had finished tracking and there was no bullshitting anymore. Now I was committing, and I was terrified. “Do I really know what I'm doing with mixing?” I would send it to Mark, he’d send it back, and I would hear shit because he mastered it well. I'd think, “I’ve got to remix this. There's too much shit that's competing. I’ve got to pull this down; I’ve got to bring this out.” I guess it’s a contradiction, but I've always liked bands like Wire [Tape Op #88] and Spoon [#27], where there's all this space and they're judicious when they introduce a new sound. My shit has always been pretty “wall of sound,” or whatever. I think I like the process of doing it. It's fun, and who fucking cares? The other part is probably because I'm trying to cover up a lack of Steely Dan-level musicianship, which bizarrely is my touchstone and could not be more antithetical. I always say I have Steely Dan taste, but an autodidact budget. [laughter]
There's sound and then there are arrangements. Arrangements can work regardless of the tones you're getting.
One hundred percent. I remember when Andrew and I worked together, I would listen to the bass/drum/acoustic guitar scratch tracks, and I'd think, “That's fucking good. I wish I could just leave it there.” But it’s a compulsion; I just can't. You know who I love lately is Andy Shauf [Tape Op #140]. I remember when I was at Mark's at one point, and Andy was working with Rob Schnapf [#9].
I worked at Kingsize [Soundlabs] once years ago and The Ship, Rob, and Mark were next door. Andy's work is so perfectly written and arranged.
Yeah, exactly. Everything is there for a reason. But again, your process is what ends up being your music.
Play to your strengths. During the process of this record, you began putting this room together?
Yeah, totally.
This is in a part of your house?
Yeah. So, this was our office. It began as just a USB interface and a couple of monitors, and then it started expanding. When we sold our house in L.A., all my shit from storage came here. Whatever I had begun to accumulate more or less doubled. I tried to treat it [acoustically]. I’d put shit up on the ceiling, and it would fall down on my head. Everyone was saying, “Spend your money on acoustic treatment.” I’m like, “I'm spending my money on tape echoes!”
Oh, yeah. I saw the Echo Fix [tape delay].
Yeah. I got the Echo Fix because my [Roland] Space Echo and my [Maestro] Echoplex were in storage. Now I’ve got them back, and I'm like looking at my old Echoplex, Space Echo, Echo Fix, and my little [Binson] Echorec Baby.
You have an Echorec too?
Yeah. In fact, that was a bit of a gateway. Weirdly, my good friend, Daniel, in the small town where we live, grew up with Jack Antonoff [Tape Op #135], and somehow he got Jack to give him an Echorec Baby to give to me for my birthday two years ago. I started fucking around with it, and about a month after that I was like, “Oh, I think I wrote a song.” I demoed it, and it ballooned back out of that. I had used samplers, and I mainly used Pro Tools essentially as a sampler. But I hadn't necessarily built something inside the sampler and then tried to construct a song on top of it. As the album progressed, I was doing more of that. Then I built this whole modular system, because I started to get into modular synthesis. Luckily, I stopped at three rows of it. After all that, I was like, “Now I better use this.” Fucking with the clocks in the modular synth helped give me a different way into the songs I'd be making. It did end up opening some doors to different ways of writing songs.
On the new record, I hear these cool parts, like outside sounds – sounds that don't quite fit to the music.
Studio detritus.
It reminded me of the first couple of Brian Eno [Tape Op #85] records.
I love Brian Eno so much! I don't know what I would do without Brian Eno. The ambient music has got me through some heavy times. Neroli has a bonus track that's hour long, and I go to bed to it every single night. I'm a very self-referential person. The films that I made are a little bit about making the movies, even if they're not literally about that. I guess I always felt like there was something insincere or disingenuous to just tell a story. I had to acknowledge that I was a storyteller, or that I was in the room. On the first Goldberg Sisters album, the one with Aaron, you could hear me walking through the door and hear us talking. In this case, I wanted to try and do something slightly more intentional, where it almost felt like one long song, so that you have a sense of the process of it a little bit. You’ll hear my kids, and sometimes it's perfect. “The Great Resignation,” which about city folk moving to the country, at the end of my piano track my kids are shouting and stomping their feet upstairs. That's perfect, because it's a track about family, kids, and moving out of the city.
When the Ships of My Dreams Return is a double LP?
It's two discs but three sides. The fourth side has got a mystery track, which does exist at the very tail end of the digital version. If nothing else, I always feel like at the end of the day that physical thing exists; as opposed to I make it, and it goes into the ether. I can at least press it up and bemoan the fact that I invested two years of my life and thousands of dollars as I’m walking by my record player. At least I’ll know that it went into that, rather than just into space!
