Hanoi Masters (Vietnam) 2014
The k'ni is a rare bowed instrument that is clasped between the teeth; a local dialectic language is spoken through the single string. On the k'ni, what to the uninitiated sounds like extraterrestrial, non-vocal atmospherics actually carries coded, poetic lyrics. Since there is no soundboard built into the instrument, I was puzzled as to where to place mics until the musician – mid-song, seated cross legged on the floor – pointed to the top of his head. The skull of the player itself is the resonator. This musician, Quôć Hùng, was a shy man, and each time I moved the microphones closer to him, he inched back – it was as if I were unintentionally shoving him around the room until he was ultimately cornered. Seeing this, I realized it was time to fall back on my default theory – meet people where they are; don't force them to come to you. Bring the studio to where the music is happening. If that is a parking lot, a hallway, or while they're lying on the ground and the mics are farther away than is optimal, so be it. I carry a selection of around ten microphones with me – a varying set depending on what I'll be recording. Almost always, though, everything centers around the Brauner Phantom Classic as the core lead vocal microphone. With solos, duos, and trios, whenever possible I double or triple mic each singer and instrument. The legendary John Golden of Golden Mastering mastered almost all of these Hidden Musics albums (as he has for nearly every record I've produced since I started releasing music in 1987). His son, JJ Golden, has taken over handily, following his father's retirement. With my roots as a DIY songwriter, singer, and guitarist, engineering was something that I came to out of necessity, not because I had any particular interest or knack for it. My initial segue into field recording happened accidentally, with my hosting a weekly live concert series at a San Francisco laundromat in the late-1990s. Before that and after, John Golden generously provided me with an ongoing master class every time I attended a session with him.
Khmer Rouge Survivors (Cambodia) 2015
Kong Nai ("the Ray Charles of Cambodia") is a local legend in Cambodia. Word is that parents commonly warn their children, "If you try to play like Kong Nai, you too will go blind (like him)," as a way to scare youngsters away from music so that they will hopefully follow some other, more respectable, career path instead. Kong Nai lived in the delta, and the wind was so strong the morning we were there that we were left little choice but to take shelter in the hatchback of a minivan in order to record him solo; though the Gutmann "dead cat" fur windscreens are indispensable, they're not foolproof. As amazing a musician as Kong Nai is, he was rivaled by another virtually unknown chapey dang veng (long-neck "guitar") player, Soun San. The primary hurdle in recording Soun San was that he lived in the capital’s flight path, with jet airliners almost clipping his apartment building while landing. The mics I use have evolved over time and vastly improved based on the personal suggestions of engineers that I've worked with who are worlds more talented than me. The Irish engineer David Odlum – who mixed the Grammy-winning Tinariwen album (Tassili) that we did together in 2011, and went on to mix the first half dozen Hidden Musics releases – was the one who tipped me to the off-axis sound rejection capabilities of Electro-Voice RE20 mics. I now carry two of them. These microphones have become a godsend for the volatile and unpredictable circumstances of live recording, even helping mute interference like the aforementioned jet engines. Prior to this, I'd long used Shure SM7s for the same purpose but have found that the RE20s capture more body and also are much more durable yet lighter and less bulky to carry. With a lavalier affixed to a guitar and an RE20 pointed upwards, it is possible to get good isolation for singer/instrumentalists who accompany themselves. In some cases, there is almost no bleed. Connecting the RE20s to Sound Devices MP-1 battery-powered portable preamps helps warm up the mic's tone nicely. Out of economic necessity, around 2021 I was forced to start mixing all of the albums myself that I produce and have done my best to maintain the quality level brought to these releases by David and another talented mix engineer, Craig Parker Adams, owner of Winslow Ct. Studio in Los Angeles.
Abatwa (Rwanda) 2016
When recording outdoors, leafy trees often act as resonators for the wind. Therefore, a forest can be the equivalent of a wall of Marshall stacks humming. But having musicians positioned to face the worst noise sources minimizes those unwanted sounds entering the mics. We recorded different musicians from the Abatwa people throughout Rwanda (and also briefly in Burundi) in two different dirt-road, hilltop villages and also while sheltered within the open-wall halls of a closed school. At the latter, the drilling and vehicles reversing at a factory over the fence were largely silenced by simply having the singers sing toward the noise.
Ustad Saami (Pakistan) 2017
We were fortunate enough to record and release the debut album for the 49-microtone scale vocal master Ustad Saami at the tender age of 73. We even went on to release two more volumes with him. Saami’s album was recorded entirely live on his rooftop in Karachi, Pakistan, while accompanied by his sons, who cradled and gently plucked three-foot-high, hand-carved, family heirloom drones on either side of him – items too precious to use for live performances. Nearly every piece Ustad performs is meant to be played at a precise time of day. We stayed up all night for the midnight song, gathered before daylight for the tune at dawn, and then did the same for sunset. The biggest sonic challenge was the harmonium, not only due to its volume, but as a droning instrument it's constantly present and impossible to isolate without it being placed in a different room entirely (and even then, it tends to still be audible). But the emphasis on creating deadened spaces for recording has always struck me as a signifier of why so many records end up sounding lifeless. And though overdubbed recordings can layer sounds, they lack the sympathetic overtones that can only be created when elements and players physically coexist and resonate with one another in real time, beyond the control of anyone and anything but the elements at hand. An advantage of headphone-less recording is that musicians are forced to engage in contextual listening and to mix each other through dynamics performed while playing, not knobs and dials after the fact. Shortly before the Ustad Saami recordings, I'd switched from the TASCAM DR-680 to a Zoom F8 multitrack recorder, not just for the extra two tracks it offered, but because it is sturdier and the preamps sound better to my ears. Its capability of up to 24 bit/192 kHz recording was another bonus. Both the TASCAM and Zoom decks are battery-powered, which is essential not only for mobility but to circumvent being derailed by issues with differing voltages and frequencies in electrical systems around the world.
fra fra (Ghana) 2018
In northern Ghana, the fra fra trio's funeral songs were often done in procession. As they danced and sang, the group seemed reluctant to even enter the compound where they'd scheduled our meeting. Instead, they gyrated in circles on the gravel outside. Since they wouldn't come in, I took the mics to the group. In field recording, coverage is more important than precision. Every microphone tells a slightly different version of the truth, so I quickly threw up as many mics as possible (including a beyerdynamic M88 that had come highly hyped but turned out to lack ruggedness for road use). The two percussionists were moving targets, dancing as they played and sang responses. Even Mbabila "Small" Batoh, the lead singer and two-string kologo "lute" player, was in near constant motion. But any microphone close to the source is better than none at all.
Yanna Momina (Djibouti) 2019
In Djibouti City, the street noises were too present to record the Afar singer, Yanna Momina. So, we retreated to a beach on the outskirts of town. All was well as we sat ensconced on the floor of a stilt hut. But as the session progressed, unbeknownst to us the tide came in fast, flanking and stranding us from the shore. The band’s sound waves rode atop ocean waves, the floor rocking in the current, the bamboo beams creaking as the water retreated and advanced. I've learned to always have a handheld mic plugged in and ready. Offering something to hold on to often grounds a singer. The Telefunken M80 works well for this purpose, providing a superior range to a Shure SM58. Yanna was a spiraling vocalist who often skirted the edge of chaos, but holding a mic helped keep her on the rails.
Comorian (Comoros Islands) 2019
The Comorian duo arranged for us to meet in an abandoned movie palace with 60-foot-high ceilings and flying fox bats hanging upside down from the rafters. Since the electricity was cut, the only light was from an open side door leading to a lot that served as garbage dump and de facto community urinal, steps from the main street. The two musicians, Mmadi and Soubi, took turns playing a handmade double-sided, eight-string ndzendze zither, simultaneously fingerpicking both sides masterfully. Soubi also used a 12-string, long-necked gabusi lute for some tunes. But the sonic snag there was that the resulting sound was overly boomy due to the cavernous room, especially due to their hand drum accompanist. We tried pulling closed the dusty stage curtains to create some isolation and damping, but what might have been a great environment to render a huge trap kit or choir, for these two acoustic solo performers it left an aftertaste that was less than suitable. We reconvened the next day for another go. One of the two artists wanted to record "anywhere" but at his own home. It is difficult to calculate how undesirable that locale might've been, since the alternative he picked was a seven-by-eight-foot sheet metal shack with a rawboned foam mattress on the dirt floor as the only furnishing. As he played, we dueled intermittently with construction workers next door who repeatedly agreed to stop hammering temporarily, then resumed seconds after we’d turned to walk away. Worse, a tropical downpour began. Of all the hazards of onsite recording, the most treacherous (aside from wind) is rain. Especially if you are positioned beneath a tin roof, which becomes a soundboard for the storm, creating a bed of white noise that ironically sounds nothing at all like rain itself, since the result is so lacking in definition. As so frequently occurs, the artist reserved his most melodically compelling song until the end – on the street, after we were broken down and departing – when at his most free. I’d defied one of my cardinal rules – never pack up the gear until you’re absolutely certain the music is in fact finished. I was left little choice but to stand in the rain holding a mini TASACAM DR-40 backup device with built-in stereo mics, trying to honor this inspired moment while both of us grew drenched in the process. Unfortunately, the handheld device malfunctioned due to the moisture. So, later that day we huddled inside the mini-SUV we'd been traveling in. As he played in the backseat, I sat in the front holding an RE20 in one hand and a Sennheiser MKH 416 shotgun mic in the other. I pointed the RE20 at his mouth and the 416 down toward his zither, doing my best to stay steady for the length of a song. When recording again the next morning with his partner, we found ourselves with nowhere else to go, so we opted for the partial protection provided from the coastal winds by one of the island's omnipresent abandoned auto shells. It was a case of inverting the old "listen to a final mix in your car." An additional bonus was the frame of the car acted as a microphone stand and resonator. I wedged a RØDE NT3 between the roof and door frame (liberally duct taped), while an AKG D112 was laid on the floor as a "room mic," mostly to pick up his foot taps as he played. As is often the circumstance with outdoor and public recording, the acoustics were highly dynamic due to the onlookers that tend to congregate in increasing numbers the longer the recording progresses. What may begin as a relatively noise-free environment can quickly turn into a landmine of whispers, distant greetings, well-intended but unhelpful hushings, throat clearings and coughs, and overly careful footsteps. That and, of course, cellphone rings, vibrations, and signal interferences.
Taa! (Botswana) 2021
It is estimated that only 2,500 Taa speakers remain; their language is officially listed as "dying." In a rural, northern Botswana transit town, a teenage Taa rap posse tried to run off a group of kids who kept hanging around while we recorded in a schoolyard. I instead waved the youngsters back and asked them to help provide handclaps. Rather than trying to prevent people from interfering, often the better tact is to actively involve them in the process. As we recorded, we competed with roofers hammering on the next block and idling Jeeps stopping for a look. Across town, the white African landlord next door mocked the singers over the fence that separated them. Later, that singer recounted how a white teacher from South Africa had told him he didn't have a musical bone in his body, but the singer went on to determinedly master the marimba. As with most of the above examples, in cases like this – when recording at multiple sites with various musical configurations and under time restrictions – having collapsible microphone stands like the OnStage MS7411TB telescoping booms is critical. In combination with the needed cables, eight of the stands bring the weight of a kit to over 100 pounds, but nonetheless all can be fit within a single standard checked-in suitcase.
Saramaccan Sound (Suriname) 2022
I recorded upriver in Suriname at an Amazon village reachable only by boat. One group took us to the river's edge to perform death rites that are forbidden to be conducted in the village lest residents be taken by the spirit. The sole instruments were the twigs the musicians broke off from a neighboring mangrove tree then scratched together to wake the dead. A Sennheiser MKH 416 recommendation came thanks to the 60 Minutes television crew who had taped the segment featuring the Zomba Prison Project. The sound team were shocked that I didn't have one of these mics already. I now stock a pair. Though the MKH 416s are the industry standard for film audio, and I love the mic's transparency and headroom, that very transparency can be problematic in live recording. Despite being shotgun mics, they capture almost every ambient sound. But for a six-member group standing in a line, positioning a mic near each end of them for a stereo image was perfect (along with individual mics, like a trusty AKG C 414 centered on each individual singer).
Bhutan Balladeers (Bhutan) 2023
I ventured to the highest-altitude nation on earth, Bhutan, to record with traditional zhungdra folk singers. We gathered in the forest outside of town. I've learned the hard way that looking directly at musicians mid-performance makes them grow self-conscious, fearing that something is wrong. Instead, as much as possible, it’s better to use peripheral vision to check the mics. Fighting the mist and intermittent rain each day, one microphone – an AKG C 451 condenser – expired in the line of duty. The 451 can beautifully represent strings and woodwinds like the group used, but it's not designed for such rugged applications. At one moment, I mistook that the recording deck had gone kaputt and dreaded finding that all our afternoon's recording had been doomed. Only later, on quieter and less chaotic review, did I decipher that all was well – rather than a technical problem, the singer had unintentionally been "throat singing" with a natural wow flutter in her voice. Though there was intermittent noise from the road below where we camped, the moss-covered pine forest floor acted as a sound absorber – hushing all local sounds with almost zero reflection. Proximity is vital to intimacy – in recording and otherwise. When a mic is within an inch or two of a source, aside from abrupt, transient sounds like coughs, strikes, and scrapes, narrow polar patterns largely only glean whatever is closest rather than loudest.
When each song was through, though, the crows appeared in droves, chiming in – more loudly for some performances than others, as if critiquing each piece. The first day, the rain was so strong it left little option but for us to take shelter in a local recording studio that the leader, Yeshi, had connections with. Ironically, we'd landed in a dull, windowless, sonically dead room with no need to touch a single piece of equipment there – a descent from a blue pine forest to fluorescent lights and walls covered in egg crate foam, simply to have a roof overhead. I’d traveled halfway around the world only to finish in precisely the kind of mediated space I ardently avoid – sentenced to a sort of auditory purgatory. I genuinely prefer recording outdoors. One of the reasons is elemental: (more) oxygen. It’s hard not to make something artificial in an artificial environment. Another difference with live outdoor recording is that the immediate atmosphere tends to make coloration determinations indelibly at the very instant the performance occurs. In many ways, the textures and tones that arise organically prove fitting, and the limitations imposed, freeing. The final day, a drizzle began to fall as a young woman, Tshechu, sang. The scene was picturesque, but each time a lone raindrop hit any of the eight microphones it sounded like a bomb had been detonated in my headphones. Recording is rarely a neutral process. Performances tend to sound better or worse when played back, usually moving in opposition to how they were perceived in real time. Thrilling sections fall flat or seemingly flaccid ones reveal a marked intensity blunted when witnessed live. But so many times, across all of these multiple recordings, fate has been on our side with the vibrancy and candor of the performers shining through no matter how great the technical and logistical muddle (not to mention the limitations of the operator [i.e., me]).
Famo Mountain (Lesotho) 2024
In Lesotho, we recorded with the Famo Mountain quintet. The group featured double drummers – a sky-high version of Molly Hatchet but with deadened, repurposed rubber tire tread and diesel can drums instead. In order to avoid disturbing the guests of the lodge that their friend worked at and had kindly offered as a space, we took refuge in the kitchen. The group formed a semicircle in a round, cone-roofed, tile-and-stucco room. With the accordion being the core element of famo music, a familiar problem emerged: another droning instrument (akin to Ustad Saami's harmonium) that seeped into every microphone. This was especially problematic when the accordion player, Monts'i Monts'i, sang lead. The only solution was to place a lavalier high on his sternum as well as an RE20 near his mouth and hope that as clean of a signal as possible could be gained to later provide definition to his voice and enough separation to balance out the volume of his squeezebox. Though I also carry a Sony ECM-77B electret condenser lavalier – a television broadcast standard which is considered "better" – I actually prefer the Audio-Technica PRO70 that I've had since the 1990s, finding it to be fuller with more definition in the high mids.
Oman Bagpipe Singers (Oman) 2025
In Oman, bagpipes are central to al-mudema music. The instrument wasn't brought to the region due to British colonialization, as is generally assumed. Instead, archeological records show that bagpipes have been on the Arabian Peninsula longer than in England, since before Christ. The band wanted to set up on the beach right in the city center because they thought it would work well visually. Fishing boats raced past as they played and, with the midday sun beating down, within minutes we were soaked in sweat. Sand blew like kryptonite into the equipment's nooks and crannies as intermittent packs of onlookers lifted their phones and filmed, as if by divine right. Not long before this trip, Tape Op's editor, Larry Crane, had been kind enough to suggest the Shure KSM32 cardioid condenser mic, and I used it for the Oman recordings. The mic perfectly captured the wide-open horizon feeling of the Arabian Sea. I used it as a primary mic for the lead, call singer, Mushal, who was also beating a tall, thin hand drum as he sang. The second group arranged to meet us at what turned out to be a construction site. Hurriedly, we had to relocate to another beach outside the city due to the banging and shouts. But right after we'd finally set up beneath a beachside thatch-roof canopy, the wind flipped, reversing direction north to south and flooding the microphones. So, fighting the loss of daylight and facing a more than four-hour drive back to our base, we hurriedly headed a mile uphill into a residential neighborhood without even detaching most of our mics from their cables and stands. We recorded there in the leader's living room, which was constructed of tile floors and walls as well as many glass tables and windows. It was the exact opposite of the soft, non-reactive sonics that the beach and most outdoor environments offer. Regardless, for me the most vital element when recording is human energy and momentum. So, I threw back up an array of mics including a Neumann TLM 103 and the eight men (plus the leader's 12-year-old son sitting in on finger cymbals) commenced again, recording as many songs as possible before they were spent, called it quits, and we had to hit the road. The miracle of the modern microphone is allowing the quietest singer to potentially be heard above the fray. No matter where we've ventured, almost infallibly our faith has been affirmed not only that there is music everywhere but also that there's a song in almost everyone, regardless of how shy or reticent they may at first appear.
