Chris Eckman: The Walkabouts & Working with Victor Van Vugt

Chris Eckman has been chief songwriter and guitarist for Seattle band The Walkabouts for 20 years. The band's sound has evolved over time as Eckman's collaboration with co-founder, vocalist and musician Carla Torgerson, keyboardist Glen Slater and drummer Terry Moeller has grown. The band has always sought out the varied talents of seasoned outside producers like Phill Brown and Victor Van Vugt. In the early '90s, Chris and the band began acting more and more as co-producers of their own records, while still working closely with outside producers. As The Walkabouts' popularity grew — primarily in Europe in countries like Germany, Greece and Norway — Eckman increasingly received requests from bands looking for an outside producer. His growing discography includes Midnight Choir, Terry Lee Hale, Portuguese band Raindogs and the Bambi Molesters, as well as his own solo material and several Walkabouts releases. At our old haunt, the Two Bells Tavern in Seattle, I spoke with Chris about working in European studios, co- producing with and learning from Victor Van Vugt and other producers, recording string sections, and producing a (Norwegian Grammy) award-winning gold record.

How did you "learn" to produce a record?

We did an album in '92 called Scavenger [Sub Pop] and it was the first time where we really hired a bona fide outside producer, this guy named Gary Smith from Boston. He had done the Throwing Muses, and I learned an enormous amount from him. He was actually a "producer", and unlike a lot of people who carry that title around, he did more than just sit in the control room and collect his paycheck. Gary wasn't an engineer either, which was actually kind of an interesting introduction to producing because the first real producer I worked with wasn't an engineer. I think what I learned from Gary was the ability to organize recording sessions and create atmospheres. The other thing I learned from him was [how] everyday you have to have as much enthusiasm about the project as the artist, if not more. I would say in the early days as a songwriter and one of the singers I clearly had production ideas, but I don't think I would consider myself a full-on co-producer in The Walkabouts until around '93. I really felt that guy cared as much about the album as we did, which I thought was a really remarkable feat. I had never worked with an engineer up to that point, as good as some of the guys I had worked with were, [whom I felt] came into it with that level of commitment. After we had worked with him, I think that all of The Walkabouts, to some extent, developed some "producing chops", 'cause we really saw how this side of things worked.

In 1987 when you and I worked together, you brought in your whole posse — Ed [Brooks], Tony [Kroes]...

Yeah, exactly. That was part of the whole thing, you know? I still do that as a producer. It depends on the project. It really varies. You know, the producer in the classic '60s sense of the term was really the guy who organized the session. You read about these classic guys like Bob Johnston who did Simon and Garfunkel, Dylan and Leonard Cohen — his name's on all those projects — but was he actually doing an amazing amount of work shaping the sound? No, he wasn't. He was really bringing this engineer, these backup musicians, [that] string arranger. He was making a lot of those decisions, and really believing and trusting in the people [assembled] and then going from there. And some projects I've been involved in, that's really the role I've played. I don't feel that I can just be a producer for hire — it's more than just liking the music. I have to look at the project and say, "It's not that they need me, but I could be useful here." If it's just going to be me sitting in a room for a month and making the occasional comment, I wouldn't do it. I try to listen to the band's previous material and say, "This needs to be a reaction against that in this [particular] way." I try to formulate an overall vision and usually it's not something I'm imposing on anyone. They've come to me. So they have a sense that I'm going to create the right atmosphere. I always tell people that — I don't want this to sound arrogant — but [I tell them] if I'm going to do it I need to feel it's a situation where ultimately I'm going to be allowed to be the producer. That's really important, or else there's really no point in me being there, you know? If the band can do it themselves or the band and the engineer can do it themselves, what's the point in hiring me? My name as a credit on the CD is not worth that much. [laughs] I also have to feel like I can make suggestions about [things like] what kind of instrumentation we use. I never ultimately impose a hard stamp on anything, but I have to have the freedom to suggest what I feel like suggesting, 'cause that's why they're bringing me in.

And do you have an idea in your head of how the record should sound sonically?

It depends. I think [with] some projects it's more clear than others. When you're dealing with an album that's like fifteen days [to record], you have to develop that sense almost immediately, if not have some sort of an articulation going on in your head even before you do it. But if it's a two-month album, I think you have the freedom to let a lot of things determine that as it goes along. I'd much rather do it the second way, to be honest. Like any kind of creative act, I think what happens in the accidents are often the most genius things. And sometimes the accidents become the fundaments very quickly, you know? And if you have enough time and spontaneity built into the project you can really seize on those things.

Are you still deferring to the engineer as far as mic choice, mic placement, whether to throw baffles up, how to set the band up?

As far as how to set the band up in the room, I would say [with] any project I'm very involved in that. Suggestions about mic placement, it depends on who I'm working with. If I'm working with Phill Brown we don't really talk too much about that. The Phill vibe, something that I think he and I both agreed upon even when we started working [together] was: Set up the room to work. Get everything going. I mean, the first day, everything. When we did this Walkabouts project, Trail of Stars, at Paradise Studios, they ran out of cables, everything, on the first day. [laughter] It wasn't like, "Now we're going to do basics, and then we're going to do overdubs." We had everything set up for all possibilities. From weird ambient mic'ing, to every single instrument in that room had a microphone in some way. Once you get going you want to have the freedom to walk in and just hit something and hope that it's ready to go. But, that said, the great thing about Phill or someone that comes from that sensibility is that he's not precious about anything, either. If something needs to be ripped down and set up he'll just go do it. I remember one time on a Midnight Choir session we decided we would mic the grand piano, and run it through a Fender Twin Reverb, with a tremolo on it full volume. And it took quite a lot of set up. I don't even think we used the track or the song, we probably spent two hours banging around on this thing, but it didn't somehow work. It's all part of the process. Sometimes it's funny what doesn't work.

How does your experience as a songwriter and musician affect the choices you make when producing a band?

Let's just back up a little bit. To be a producer that doesn't engineer I believe you have to more than justify your presence in that control room. There's got to be a reason to have you there. Most of the time it's perfectly reasonable to create wonderful records with a band and an engineer that is playing that swing position of engineer/producer. I've done two records I'm extremely proud of with Victor Van Vugt. He's an engineer/producer, clearly. And when Phill worked with The Walkabouts he worked as a co- producer/engineer. So I think a lot of what I bring is in the pre-production, even before I meet with the band, like talking about song selection, and really thinking in terms of what songs are we gonna record, having a visual idea to some extent of what songs balance the record. And then of course once you're in the studio the whole idea of arrangement, having a sense of what makes a song work. There's no objective truth when it comes to that but that's one of the things I think people hire me for is to try to help them sort that out.

Should the production be a vehicle for the song, or vice versa?

Well I don't think there's a rule about that. I love a lot of music where the production is [like it is in] dub music. Where we have actually made the song disappear. The song no longer is the focus; it's the production that's the focus. So, I think there are as many answers for that as there are types of music. But I think with almost everything I've worked on I tend to try to make the production a vehicle for the song. The kind of bands I've worked with, up to this point, tend to be very organically based. Most of what I've done we always start recording live, as a unit. I mean, I absolutely insist [on the band playing live]. This is not debatable with me. We have to have a studio that's capable of doing that or it's not a project I will be involved in. But it's not because I think there's only one way to make a record. [It's] where I come from. They need to find someone else to make that other kind of record.

There's an amazing consistency in the latter day Walkabouts records, almost as if you've "found" your sound.

I think there's a feeling that we try to have small revolutions. Probably only we notice. We're the only people at the revolution. [laughs] We were signed to Sub Pop for the longest time and we sounded like a baroque string quartet compared to everything else [on the label]. I think we did feel this pressure to somehow be a rock band. I think when we left that whole Sub Pop fold finally, even the European side of it around '95, we just said, "This is really time for a fresh start." And it coincided with us signing to Virgin. Suddenly we were on a major label and we could afford to [record with strings]. We'd always been really crazy about stuff like Nick Drake and Love, and a lot of music that had strings, not just to sweeten things, but to actually add that undercurrent of melancholy. Strings can speak in many voices, [like] surprise, and to give you a sense of something ominous. I think they get a very bad rap as being something that's just sort of added.

So you've had sessions with different string sections. Single violin player here and there, to quartets, to [sixteen pieces]. What are some of your experiences?

Well, I think [that], number one, it should be said that by far the most stressful sessions I've ever been involved with are string sessions. You never have enough time, unless you've really cherry-picked the string players or you know them personally and they have some invested interest. I'm talking about more sectional things at this point. Especially string players for hire, they're of a very specific breed. There's this sense that, "When I come to this session, I have a break from an hour and 45 minutes after we get there, if the end of the session comes I walk away, I put down my bow and walk." We worked with the Warsaw Philharmonic, or members of it, when we did Devil's Road. We actually went to Warsaw on the train, took the tapes there, set up in the National Radio studio. [laughs] We had no visual contact with the sixteen piece-string section, and I just remember distinctly at one point like an hour and fifteen minutes into the session, we were communicating to the conductor. "Okay, now we're going to start this song again," and about two minutes into the song it careened to a stop. You could hear all these bows going down to the ground and they simply walked out, because it was fifteen after the hour. So that kind of thing is just really, really difficult. I've never had a string section [where I] got what [was] needed exactly. There's the arrangement, whether it works, you've got to establish that. Intonation, especially with some things, is very difficult. A lot of string players are not used to playing along with pop music, with a headphone on. It really presents a lot of challenges. It's an enormous amount of stress. But when it works — I think I've probably only ever cried in the studio twice and it was during string section recording, 'cause there's just something that happens. Suddenly there's an angle to the song. You had a sound in your head and suddenly it achieves that.

Cried out of being emotionally moved, not out of frustration? [laughs]

Oh yeah, I was actually moved. I've cried out of frustration but that's a different story. [laughter] That's every project. This is more out of a sense of joy. The first Walkabouts song we ever used a quartet on, I was moved. It was like this dream I had, we sort of had achieved it. As far as mic'ing techniques go — the standard way to do it if you're dealing with large, sixteen pieces, you divide them into pairs of two, close mic 'em there, and do some kind of X/Y mic'ing technique. You obviously have to have a large room to do it. You sort of sectionalize it. At least having one microphone for every two players. But I do find that when it comes to mixing very often you end up using just the distant mics, the overheads. There's a certain blend that happens, especially if you're challenged by the intonation. Of course you can mute those two players or bring them down, but you get a lot more forgiveness out of that blend. But it's always exciting. I've probably done — between The Walkabouts and the things I've produced — eight or nine records now with at least a quartet.

Are there any particular challenges or differences working in European countries?

Well, I wouldn't say you can generalize because Europe is so many places. There's a huge difference between working in a studio in London, where you can call up a rental place all night, 24 hours a day and get a piece of gear, [and] working in Ljubljana, Slovenia, where there is no place that even rents any sort of audio gear. There's a hugely different psychology when you know there's simply things you can't get [as opposed to] a place where every toy imaginable is available 24 hours a day. Sometimes those limitations are exactly what's cool about a place. With Midnight Choir we've been really lucky because we've chosen places with a lot of atmosphere. Like recording in Lisbon, and in Ljubljana, Slovenia, and Prague. You definitely have to accept certain things. But that's not to say that these places are the Third World either. The studio I work in in Ljubljana is one of my favorites. Immaculately maintained. When we decided to do the third Midnight Choir record in Ljubljana I got this equipment list over the Internet from this studio and [I got a price quote]. I was just like, 'Impossible, with this equipment, to pay that price for this place. [Equipment included a full array of older, well-maintained Neumann microphones, a strong selection of tube gear, an LA-2A compressor, a couple of Tube Tech pieces. The console was custom made by the studio owner, and it's amazingly clean and warm with a really short signal path. In a back room there is a huge plate reverb. Another thing I really love there is the piano. Phill and I agreed it is one of the best we've ever heard.] The Norwegian record label flew me from Lisbon to Ljubljana in the middle of the week just to confirm, and I really felt embarrassed [like I was] the imperialistic Western European or American. "I don't believe that you really have this stuff that you say you have." And I literally walked into the studio for 20 minutes, looked at everything, [said] "Yeah, there it is," and then said, "Sorry, but they insisted I come and see it." So there are some great, out of the way places that you can find. But I'll just say one more thing about the difference. Clearly, with the exception of England, in my experience analog recording is basically disappearing on the continent. There's not a single facility that's workable in Oslo, for example. One of the reasons Midnight Choir never records in Oslo. [In] a lot of studios the analog machine is back in the tech room. "Oh, we haven't used that in five years." It's really getting frustrating in that way. It's really gone full-on hard disk almost everywhere you go. It's also getting harder to find tape.

You've worked with Victor Van Vugt.

We worked with Victor Van Vugt twice, at Conny Plank Studios in 1995, and in Seattle at Bear Creek and Avast! [in] '97. We were looking for a producer for this Devil's Road record, which would be our debut major label record. One of our first thoughts was we really should work with somebody who has worked with strings, not only from an engineering standpoint but [with] a general sensibility about how to make that work in a mix. I am a huge fan of a Nick Cave [and the Bad Seeds] record called The Good Son, which was recorded in Brazil, and Victor did that. I felt like sonically he was going to challenge us a bit, kind of help us take that step we were deliberately trying to take. We had just done Setting the Woods on Fire, probably the most rock 'n' roll record we ever did. We needed someone to come in and help us out. We decided to go to Conny Plank Studios. And again we felt like we were ready to liberate us from all of our old associations, like recording in Seattle. This would really help us try to get to a new place. I didn't know the complete history of [the studio]. I mean, I certainly am a moderate fan of this kind of German, '70s, Krautrock stuff, so I knew the name Conny Plank. I even had a record that he had done with Eno. But when we got there it was just a fascinating museum of analog wizardry. The mixing board — there's only two of them in the world, one of them is in that studio, the other one is in the Can studio outside of Cologne.

Where is the Conny Plank Studio?

It's about an hour and a half outside of Cologne, really in the middle of nowhere in the German countryside. A little town called Neuenkirchen. And it's a residential place, an old farmhouse. The studio is like out in the horse stall. Conny Plank died in the early '90s but his wife still maintains the place and she cooks dinner for you every night. The place was just filled with analog synthesizers, and Glen, our keyboard player, ended up taking a bunch of them up to his bedroom, up in this garret where he was staying, and had this room full of, like, nine '70s and early '80s analog synthesizers all just pulsing all the time, and I think that really opened my mind up to the possibilities of that sort of thing. I think I was just a little too rigid in my aesthetic before that, you know? I think being there for those three weeks helped us with the next record, and the record after that. It's a wonderful place, like a museum. I remember she had a phone call while we were there. Some French synthesizer collector called her and was trying to pay her huge money. I don't even remember which synthesizer [he wanted], and she started yelling at him. "This is a museum, not a store!" and hung up the phone, and I was just like, "Wow." Very interesting.

What are some of the ways Victor pushed you?

I just felt like with some of the Seattle engineers I really had to explain where we were coming from. There didn't have to be a lot of discussion [with Victor] about some of this stuff. And he was remarkable to watch. He's very much a producer with a capital "P". He definitely sits behind the board and engineers and produces. But he has a very strong idea about certain things. A lot of times he just lets things roll, but if he really thinks something is not of a well-developed taste, he'll tell you in that sarcastic, Australian sense of humor, which is wonderful. He has a real way of making it still fun.

Do you track demos with the band?

I'm really not interested in listening to extensive band demos and then trying to recreate those in the studio. I would actually rather do projects that have no demos, or just someone sitting in front of a microphone and singing, so at least we know what the outline of the general song is. Then [we can] really go in there and use the studio as a place to develop the material in that context. As much as I believe in the band [setting] up to play live, that is less so we can just duplicate what they've been doing in rehearsal then it is to just give us the big picture of what we already have. When we hear it back through the speakers we can start to deconstruct it in a way, and possibly find potentials in the material that aren't there, that aren't being already played. We have to rely on our intuitions while we're already there, instead of coming with an enormous outline of what it already needs to be.

So band goes in, band knows the song, period. Start from scratch?

I think so. It's good for there to be a rough outline. Yeah, there's no substitute for a well-written song. I truly believe that. A really well written song can survive multiple versions. You can really beat up on it and you can really stretch it, and you can really sonically treat it, but it's always [there], at the end of the day.

So you won a Norwegian Grammy?

Well, Midnight Choir won, for best record. Amsterdam Stranded. And it's a gold record, too. I think there is a story with that record that should be stressed. That record, at least within the context of that very small country, turned out to be an enormously successful record, and the funny thing about it, it starts with an eight-minute song, four minutes of which is an instrumental outro that isn't building to something. It's actually quite the opposite. It's breaking down into something. Their record company A&R guy played it to the sales staff of the label and by a minute-and-a-half into it guys had newspapers up, reading them. I think a lot of people just said — I mean they were kind of like an up-and-coming band — and [people said], "This record is an absolute commercial disaster." Actually the complete opposite happened. I'm not saying we knew that. I think we were scared to death at some point, too. But I remember we had a certain argument with the record company at the mix stage about which songs we were going to include, because we had one song that we had kind of "groomed" as the single. Which is something that almost never works, I have decided. Now, strangely, they've [Midnight Choir] worked [themselves] into a realm where they don't need singles anymore, like a Radiohead equivalent, but in Norway. But at that point, the record company said, "We need a hit." So we had this one song, and I remember the record company guy came to the studio, we had finished with the mixes, and he's like "Where's blah, blah, blah?" He had even brought his wife! "You gotta hear this song!" I'm like, "Umm." Of course I'm the one that has to tell him, "This song is no longer on the record." Because we just decided it simply didn't fit. Everything else was so melancholy and moody and dark, and this was such a deliberate attempt at something happy-go-lucky it actually upset the balance of the album. It made the album a weaker document. This was kind of a suicidal decision, and I got a phone call a few weeks later, "Well you know, that song has to be on the album." And the songwriter of the band said to the label, "Okay, I quit. Can't release it. I won't sign off on this record. We simply won't finish it." And in the end, of course, everybody congratulates themselves about it. But I will say that in the end the record company said, "Okay, the artist ultimately needs to have the say here." I mean, we were having discussions that got a little bit heated, but you know everyone came around and I give the record company enormous credit for having the guts to put that record out. And to promote it like it was somehow a pop record. It really worked out for everyone in the end.