Phill Brown: Stomu Yamash’ta/Rock Follies 16th February 1976

We interviewed Phill Brown in issue number [ #12 ] of Tape Op . Over the years he's worked with some of the greatest artists ever, like Jimi Hendrix, Joe Cocker, Traffic, Spooky Tooth, Jeff Beck, Led Zeppelin, Robert Palmer, Bob Marley, Steve Winwood, Harry Nilsson, Roxy Music, Stomu Yamash'ta, John Martyn, Little Feat, Atomic Rooster, and Talk Talk. This is another excerpt from his (still!) unpublished book, Are We Still Rolling? Last issue : Phill began doing two albums at once. –LC

Stomu sessions were intense and became more difficult as the days progressed. This was mainly due to the combination of technical requirements, the number of producers and musicians, the use of large amounts of cocaine by almost all involved and the clash of various musical egos. While Steve, Al and Brother James were quiet and relaxed and just "went with the flow", Mike, Paul and Stomu displayed determined and temperamental personalities. From the moment the session started I would be required to work at maximum pace, both physically and mentally, while I looked after 32 microphone and line inputs and attended to the requirements of six musicians and five producers and operated the desk and tape machines. Robert Ash was an excellent asset on these sessions and followed my every move, while keeping an attentive eye on the tape machines and making sure no microphone was accidentally moved by a musician. By contrast, mixing in Studio 2 for Rock Follies was much easier to handle and the daytime sessions became a break from the intense stress of the nights in Studio 1. Robert had opted to join me on my sessions in Studio 2 and now logged the various takes of Rock Follies mixes during the day.

On Stomu's project, Robert and I were pushing the equipment and our concentration to the limit. Although the finished album was planned to sound as a more or less continuous piece, it would be made up of 14 different sections, or songs. The usual procedure was to choose one and play it repeatedly until we had a master. The music was spacious, atmospheric and gentle. The delicate fade-in of instruments over a backdrop of Moog synthesizer would permeate Studio 1 for hour after hour as we floated through our projected "space".

One night we were working on the first six minute section of side one. We had recorded a couple of run-throughs and were now on take three. It started off with wind, intergalactic sounds and a haunting discordant percussion sound from Stomu, before building with piano, bass and drums. This take unfortunately broke down before the last chorus section. There was easily enough tape left for one more version of this 6- minute piece and I left the machine in record and said, "Okay, we're still rolling. Take 4". The Moog drifted in with the wind and we were off again. I looked down into the studio and nine guys would be playing, heads bowed. I would look up to the far wall and see the lunar module disconnecting from the mother ship and the preparations for a Moon landing. The version of the piece they were playing had a fluid, ethereal quality from beginning to end.

As it reached what should have been the end, Klaus unexpectedly went into the next track, "Crossing the Line". This was a beautiful track and became my favorite song of the album, but right now, we had a problem. Robert and I immediately found ourselves at the beginning of a five minute song with only about two minutes of tape left. I felt reluctant to stop them, for two reasons. Firstly I didn't want a technical problem to stop or interrupt this excellent atmosphere, and secondly this was a heavy bunch of musicians and the thought of having to say down the talk-back system, "Sorry guys, we ran out of tape" was horrendous. I moved into "live mobile recording" mode and realized we could use the other multi- track machine, a 16-track. Luckily we were only recording to 18 tracks on the 24-track machine. Two of the 18 were recording the signal from our ambient mics, which I thought, if pushed, we could probably manage without.

We loaded up the 16-track machine with new tape and got ready. Due to the way the Dolby was wired up, the signal could be sent either to the 16- track or to the 24-track machine, but not to both at once, so it would be necessary to switch between them on the fly. I had never needed to do this before and did not know if it would work at all or, if it did work, whether or not there would be any clicks. The familiar Moog wind and intergalactic atmospherics were floating through the speakers and the Lunar module was getting ever closer to the Moon's surface. I checked all the levels reading at the desk on the first 16 tracks.

"God, Robert," I said, moving over to him at the tape machines, "You realize that wherever we switch - that will have to be my edit point? How quick do you think this switching works?" The Moog continued to build in dynamics and power. "Maybe we could cross-fade over the Moog section," I said. "I don't know" said Robert, "but I think you should pick your spot and count me in... and pretty quick". Just at that moment Mike Shrieve played the drum entry and everyone picked up the new song. ‘'Scrap that cross-fade idea" I said. Our remaining length of tape on the 24-track machine was getting shorter. Robert put the 16-track machine into record. "I've got the rhythm of the song," said Robert. "Let's go, in two bars." "Okay, but switch just before the snare beat, one bar." I took a deep breath and counted, "1... 2... 3 and..."

Robert switched and the meters immediately began to read. The only tracks we did not have were those on groups 23 and 24, our ambient mikes. We did not know whether it had worked or not and would only find out on playback. I settled back at the desk and followed proceedings. Below me in the studio, unaware of out activities, the band were already building the track with percussion, timpani and piano to Winwood's fragile vocal entry. "When you're caught on the other side..." sang Winwood as he played along on piano. "...possibilities aren't always what they seem, reject them and all your choices will be tree crossing the line". These lyrics seem strangely relevant, I thought.

We were flying in more ways than one. In the studio, through dull lighting and flickering candles I could just make out the musicians, playing with their heads bowed or eyes half closed. On the screen, walls and ceiling, a projected backdrop of stars and planets mingled with the Lunar module, skimming over the Moon's surface. In the vocal booth, adjacent to the control room, Klaus moved furiously around the wall of pots, patches and parameters that made up the Moog. I was taking all this in, plus watching the record levels on the 16 PPM meters, keeping an eye on the limiters, compressors and echo sends and worrying if we would be able to salvage this take. At the same time I was feeling euphoric and increasingly removed from proceedings - just watching it all going on around me. Robert brought over a joint and chopped out a line of coke on the edge of the desk. "Well, I think we deserve these," he said, lighting the joint and handing me a hollow plastic tube, "I don't know if it will work but at least we didn't panic or stop them - and if it does work it was a great idea."

As luck would have it, both these songs became our masters. It was almost impossible to play them back to back in the way they had been recorded, so while the band took a break I copied the 16 track over to fresh tape on the 24-track machine and then edited them together. This was carried out with no problems and Robert and I loaded up the finished version and, with fingers crossed, hit the play button. Surprisingly it had worked, with only a slight variation in hiss level. I felt it had been a complete accident, as it could so easily have gone either way. "Well done Robert," I said. "A perfect switch." We were both grinning broadly. The ambient mikes were lost, but this was not thought to be a problem. Dennis McKay, one of the three producers, planned to "sort it out in the mix". Unfortunately he achieved this by gating every instrument and losing our natural room sound, then replacing it with artificial echo. This treatment was eventually used for the whole album, much to my disappointment.

I finished mixing Rock Follies on the 12th and tried to catch up on some sleep. This proved difficult as I was always so wired by 5 am. The night sessions continued to be long, intense, and mentally hard work. As the days progressed, I began crossing a line of my own. On the 14th of February Sally (my wife) was taken into hospital with problems over her three-month pregnancy. She arranged for our daughter Becca to be looked after by our close friends and neighbors, Duncan and Angie Campbell. I stayed in London working, feeling that I could not let everyone down now by leaving the project. When I phoned Sally at the hospital to talk to her she appeared okay with this decision, adding, "There's not much you can do here really".

I carried on working as best I could. My body and brain were trying to deal with the difficult and intense sessions, the build-up of weeks of cocaine abuse and too little sleep, and now - a major family crisis. As I engineered the sessions, looking through the window of Control Room 1 and floating through space, I felt I had reached a ravine - and was looking over the edge. I felt insanity or something very dark lurked down there and at all costs I must not fall. The sessions - technical problems - sleep deprivation - cocaine - Sally - guilt - everything was whirling round in my head and I felt it was all becoming too much to deal with. I was aware of being very near to some form of emotional or physical breakdown. Despite all that, I still felt that I could not pull out of the sessions. We now had eight out of fourteen masters completed.

On the morning of Monday the 16th of February at around l am, Duncan Campbell turned up. We were right in the middle of working on "Ghost Machine" and were close to a final take. We had just been playing back a previous take as Duncan had arrived and now everyone was wandering into the studio for another run-through of the song. I was really surprised to see him, but welcomed Duncan and told him to sit at the back of the control room while I asked Robert to make him a mug of tea. He put his arms around me and said, "No, that's okay Phill. I won't have any tea. Sally has lost the baby - It's time to go home."

I realized then that it was all over and spoke to Stomu and Paul. Although they accepted that it was the only thing I could do, they somehow managed to give me the feeling that I was letting the band down - which of course, is exactly what I had been trying to avoid. Everyone, including myself, was so wired and spaced that it was all very dream-like. Mike Shrieve in particular did not want to see me go and told me "...there's not much you can do about it now." Rosko, Steve and Brother James appeared indifferent. I don't think it really clicked with any of them that I really had to go.

Duncan led me out of the studio, put me in his Renault 4 and drove me home. He said very little about Sally, just the basic facts, time etc. I spent the first half hour in the car going on about the Stomu sessions but then became very quiet and we drove in silence. He dropped me off at home at about 3 am and the next day I visited Sally in the hospital. We were both upset by the miscarriage but, as Sally said, "It must be for the best, we have to accept it and look forward." I made sure she was okay before collecting Becca on my way home. I decided, belatedly, that it was time to take on my responsibilities at home and have a three-week break. Robert Ash took over recording. I never went back to the sessions. The album was mixed by Dennis McKay at Trident Studios.

My attitude towards work was never quite the same again after the Stomu sessions. There had been previous albums that had affected me on a personal level, but never to this degree. All the recent events, working 20 hours a day, the cocaine, the Valium, my fear of impending madness, Sally's miscarriage and my feelings of guilt for not being there, and my subsequent shift of attitude to work seemed to echo Stomu's theme of change and polarity, fantasy and reality, death and rebirth.

Phill's amazing studio memoir, Are We Still Rolling? , has stories about recording Hendrix, the Stones, Zeppelin, and countless other icons.

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