Ross Robinson has over 20 years of album production experience spanning genres of intense alternative, metal and experimental rock, and is known for his evocative psychological manipulation as well as for his very detailed, aggressive recordings. This unique production style has brought the most out of bands such as Korn, The Cure, At the Drive-In, Klaxons, Norma Jean, My Own Private Alaska, Sepultura, Machine Head, Slipknot and the infamous Limp Bizkit. His past is rooted in classic rock, dirt biking and thrash metal, and his experience in the '80s as guitarist for cult thrash favorites Détente lead him into a career in the studio and record industry. In his beachfront home in Venice, California, Robinson has built a no-frills studio that gives birth to records of great creativity that retain the magic of his big- budget projects. The apartment-style first floor of his spacious modern house has been transformed into a small but very functional recording environment. A relatively minimal amount of gear here has been carefully selected and collected over the years to build a small setup with a great sound. I had the fortuitous dual role of being both a Tape Op contributor and a member of my band, Repeater, which Ross had chosen to record after hearing our music via MySpace. Time spent with Ross and this glimpse into his working methods opened up a series of questions that offer a unique look into one special producer.
How did you get your start in studios?
It's the same as when I recorded with my cassette 4-track — just by doing it and being obsessed with music.
Is there any one person you learned from initially?
The first record I recorded, I didn't produce. I was playing, and the producer was the bass player from Slaughter [Dana Strum]. He was this guy that took really big steps down the hallway — clunk, clunk — and he would just control everything. I worked for him after that as a production assistant. I was getting paid 75 dollars a week, but I didn't care. I felt rich. He was pretty full on, and I thought that was so cool, being 17 years old.
What is a producer?
A producer could be just somebody that wants to party, hanging out with bands. My job is to babysit — that's not true-well, it kind of is. It could be a lot of things for different bands. Mainly it's about the psychology of the lyric and turning it into the deepest expression of that — understanding the meaning of the song. People have this thing about me — that I'll make things crazy and it gets violent or out of control. But it's the lyric that pushes it — the song has its way. A lot of kids will write about hardcore stuff and think that they're cool or something, and I'm like, "Are you sure you want to sing about this?" With me they actually get to feel what they're writing down, and most of the time it's really brutal and it wears everybody to the ground.
Is production something you do to a band, or something you do with a band?
The song does it to the band. I make sure that the song is the life form that rules everything — not me or the band.
It seems that you revisit your pre- production methods throughout the sessions, but that initial push is what sets the tone for the entire project. Describe your process.
Rehearsal. Work out the beat, get a piece of meaning of what we're trying to express and then take it deeper and go more psychological with it. To actually record it for real — then that's when we go deep into the meaning. Hopefully the drummer did his homework and he can play it without thinking about playing, and he can be exuding the core intention of what the song is about. With The Cure, normally Robert would record the music before he did the vocals (except for their first record), so nobody knew what the song would be about. It was just kind of like a "vibe" that they would record. With our record [The Cure, 2004] I wanted him to write the lyrics first. The air was thick, because what he sings about [aren't] always the happiest things in the world — so people had to feel it when they recorded their drums and their parts. English people don't really want to feel that much.
What do you see as a great take?
When everybody forgets they're actually on an instrument. If it hits that mark, there are chills as it's going, and something else happens — the body disappears.
How much of the drum editing is done before you start the rest of the basic tracking?
It depends on how technically good the drummer is. It could be wild, and then I'm working on it throughout with Pro Tools. With tape I would have to get it. It's really ruthless.
You like a natural sound in the drums, but you do a lot of edits. How do you reach a compromise and say that it's finished?
When the song says it's finished.
You do some brutal tweaking through your personal stash of stompboxes. You are on your knees finding and manipulating tones on take after take, sometimes a few bars at a time.
It's not really the effect; it's the phasing in between the pedals that creates the sound. With the bass it's consistency in the playing. I'll work on the bass tone a long time to get the phasing correct. If the bass player isn't good at all, I'll just work on finding that phase in between the pedals, the bass and the person's right hand to hopefully find a sweetness in the track. Normally I can find it. It's a process, but it's only inner- guided. I don't know [how to explain] what to go for — it's a craving to be satisfied. I want to record the way it's gonna sound. There are effects on everything permanently before it's mixed and everything.
I'm the vocalist in this process. What are you doing to me?
Giving you the place to feel safe and supported in order for you to expose everything.
Does this help bring out the fire you light under the vocalist in production?
If you like what you're hearing when you're singing it, then yeah.
Do you think I will be a better singer when I get out of here, or are you just getting my best performance for the record?
People will think you are better. It's all relative to what your brain says you are. A lot of people expose so much. I feel a reason a lot of repeat records don't happen [with me] is that it's such a treacherous path of exposing the lyric and finding that part of the singer within them. To me it's obvious. You're talking about yourself so let's find that place and let's really, really bring it out, so you can give people permission to take it to the highest level. If you do it then people will follow, and it's very healing and revealing.
You like using your old Telefunken ELA M 251 mic. [Used on many of Ross' records and by countless artists at Indigo Ranch Studios.]
It's just a really special sounding mic. It's got a Stephen Paul Audio mod, and that's the thing that separates it from the other ones. When a vocal sits in a mix at any level, that signal chain is ruthlessly important, because no matter what the tracks sound like, it cuts.
When did you build this studio? Was it built with a particular project in mind?
It's just stuff. From the beginning I just started collecting things as I needed them in other studios — a guitar, a cord or I'd need a pedal to record something. It wasn't necessarily built "to have a studio." That was the last thing I wanted, because I saw the misery that owning a studio held.
How was your "Sierra room" constructed?
I heard an engineer say "Sierra room" at an old school studio I worked out of. It had rocks and I thought it was really cool — volcanic fiber for isolation, tons of fiberglass, a wall inside the wall and the ceiling's dropped. I got this old school dude, Steve Katz, to design it. He has a little mixing room built like that room — I went in and listened to it and it was perfect. It's like a little cubicle he built inside of an apartment, and it's a completely different world.
How would you compare its sound to larger or more elaborate drum rooms?
It's the best drum room I've ever recorded in. I've recorded in some sweet drum rooms, and this one smokes them all.
You let the bands stay at your house. This makes them available and on call for sessions, but what else does this gesture provide to the recording process?
Venice is a little bit landlocked, so it creates a sense of personality within a group. The group's moment of their lives — with me included — there's a vibe of that moment. When everybody's here it's got a character. That's what I loved about Indigo [Ranch] so much, 'cause you were just stuck up there [in Malibu], and it created a sense of vibe. That vibe can't help but get thrown onto the format you record on.
A bunch of your albums were done at Indigo Ranch.
I saw that Nick Cave, Neil Diamond, Neil Young, Olivia Newton-John, The Go-Go's and all these things that I liked the sounds of were recorded up there. It had the deep '70s vibe. My history is just trying to recreate that feeling that I got as a kid, running around in the mud with those people's music flying through the air. That history's basically conjuring up old school vibes inside myself. My favorite thing up there was the vocal sound. I'm still missing one piece of gear that I need to get.
Perhaps you could compare a record made here at your place to The Cure's record, made over a very long period and recorded at Olympic Studios in London.
The Cure had all kinds of people outside of me and the band — a tech, studio manager, the engineer that I had, the people that worked at the studio...
I looked at the credits...
It was ridiculous. The second engineers that we went through — there were so many people. I feel really clear about what I'm doing — it was still clear there, but chaotic. This here is simple — it's just me and the band.
What about taking on the role of engineer? You have worked side by side with an engineer for most projects. What role does the assistant play in this project?
I just basically didn't know how to plug things in, 'cause I never did it. I was too prima donna, busy working with the band or busy being a band member rather than a techie guy. I think it hurts the record in a way and makes it better in another way. I could see it taking longer to make up for that hurt through having to get rest. Being in front of those speakers and that screen is brutal, and it's not what I would ever normally have done before — ever. I stayed away from it and I would laugh at people doing it. I thought it was funny because they looked so burnt. It would be funny because we all love what we do.
I've seen that burn before, and yours is extreme.
Yeah. The burn that I would have — if it wasn't [from operating] the computer, as just producer — would be emotional.
In previous projects have you been right on the boards, or have you taken a back seat to the engineer?
If I work with an engineer, I'm super hands-on, but I'd step away to get clarity while someone else works on it. For your record I'm engineering it, but I feel I'm doing exactly what I did before, except I'm looking at a screen.
Your editing process seems particularly painful — hard on the eyes and ears.
Editing is the worst. I want it to feel a certain way. I've always edited tape and made sure it was what I wanted.
What are the advantages and disadvantages of working with no filter between you, the band and the hardware?
The filter — I guess what I love about it is that I don't have to wait for somebody to understand what I'm saying — I can just do it. I'm so full on with engineers, and I can get super short with them if they're lagging — if they have a food coma or something. I don't have any tolerance for it — zero. If I'm on a roll and the electricity's happening, the music's on fire and there's a lagger, their head's gonna get fucking chopped off. So, that's really sweet to not have to deal with that.
How do you interact if there is another mixing engineer?
If they're really great, it's the best time ever. If they're not good then I become extremely impatient, because it gets in the way of the creativity. I'm more loyal to the feeling behind the music than I am to the personality that I'm working with, and don't care about saving feelings in order to save the personality behind the music that's trying to come out. I'm more interested in new life than somebody trying to be "right."
Do any of your methods surprise or confound other engineers?
Just that I print everything. I would print vocal doubles and stuff on things before I'd send it to Andy Wallace [issue #25]. He couldn't do anything about it. That's the way it was, that's what happened and it rules. He liked it — he thought it was awesome.
If you had all the time in the world, how long would it take you to mix a record?
A month. That would mean a lot of breaks, stepping away for days and being really clear. Free time with no life — definitely two weeks or so.
What does the digital realm provide for you?
To store signals and help me arrange them. It's just the format. I do all the editing on there.
What are some go-to pieces for the drum sound?
The room, the drums and the player.
Equipment-wise?
It's probably different from player to player. The kick and all — they're just different characters. It depends on the way the drummer's hitting the kick and the other drums.
People swear by analog tape, especially for drums. What does tape do for you?
It separates the frequencies from everything you pile on top of it afterwards.
What role does that Neve [8816] summing unit play in your mixing?
If you see blurry, you have to drive and see signs and follow directions. That thing is as great as a pair of glasses for bad eyesight.
Does the lack of a console make things easier for you?
I like to mix with my fingers on the faders. That I miss a lot, because I would get really high off that, like you're actually playing an instrument. It was really great, but you have to feel really inspired. When it starts getting technical you start over-thinking and all of a sudden it's gone and it sucks. I think on the Korn records and the Slipknot record, the hand-mixed vibe is so ruthless. You can hear on [Radiohead's] OK Computer how he [Nigel Godrich] mixed by hand — the mixes are so ridiculous. For a pop guy they're "wrong," but that record will move you to the end. It's completely inspired. Those people, um, label heads, expect to hear everything in a perfect order, and that's not normal.
You never use a click track when recording drums. Instead, you use a delay pedal and in-ear monitors. What does this do for the drummer's sound and feel?
If there's no electronics. The Cure had electronics and stuff like that. But usually the delay is set for the song and the drummer can hear the slap back of the vocal. I'll ride it to keep the tempo up, so he can basically sway around it, and there's no thinking about anything except for what the vocal is saying. That's what I love about the delay. It concentrates and focuses on what the song is supposed to be exuding, not the cowbell blazing in your eardrums.
You are known for the nu-metal and rap-metal sound that exploded in the 1990s.
Korn was basically a mix between Faith No More and Carcass, and Jonathan [Davis, vocalist] was like, a new wave/industrial guy. When he came to try out for the band, he was wearing Robert Smith makeup and I was like, "Oh my god, this is awesome." The Cure's my favorite band. I think it was the first "sensitive" metal record. It was exuding things that people just don't sing about, there were no holdbacks and that just continued on. As far as the Adidas-rock thing, doing Limp Bizkit [Three Dollar Bill Y'All$] and it blowing up... They were just a really good live band, and the vibe was just completely on fire. It wasn't really a style of music that made it all happen — that band smoked people live super hard, and no one can deny that.
Can you talk about your experiences with At the Drive-In?
The vocals are just excruciatingly badass. Slipknot was the same way too. I did the Glassjaw record [Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Silence] first and then At The Drive-In [Relationship of Command] right after that. Between those two bands it felt like I was able to spearhead and expose a genre with my label connections and everything to kind of take out all the Adidas-rock biters. It was my plan to wreck that genre. Not the original bands, just, ugh...
What are some of your favorite experiences with bands who've recorded here?
There's kind of a blanket over music being exposed, so I've been recording different bands that haven't been released — as full on and as hardcore, as if I was getting paid a million to do it, with no holdbacks, no breaks or attitudes or anything. My Own Private Alaska I loved because it was so unique. It's a three-piece with classical piano, hardcore drums and just painful vocals — I love it. They asked if they can use my name to get a deal after they friended me on MySpace. They found it and we recorded. And Norma Jean — they're just severely badass — just such a sweet band, and they're unsigned right now — crazy. Korn is unsigned.
They don't need to be anymore, do they?
They like those big money advances — they're old school. The Slovenian band, Siddharta, was so great to record [the album Saga]. They sang about loving nature and appreciating air. It's such a relief. I try to bring that out into the most ruthless song — to realize what they already sing about — so I was kind of left hanging trying to figure how to dig in. It was easy but different. It was a relief, like a vacation.
You listen to most of the bands that solicit your attention. How do you go about choosing projects?
I can feel transparency a mile away. I can see what it could be. There's a feeling behind it that I can tell what its potential sounds like before it actually happens. I think that's been a real plus for a lot of things that I've done. I don't make music to get hits. It just feels normal and natural for me to do it. It's who I am.
You remain positive even when frustrated with a song or the band. Do you think it works?
I do that for sanity purposes for myself. I don't think that it's productive to stay angry or exude bitterness. It's not personally productive for my own life. I don't want to have that inside of me, and I don't want to be around it. I'm not trying to change anybody — I just want to be what I want to be around. The thing is people soften up really deeply, and it becomes a safe haven and a sanctuary for the bands here — a memory that they remember fondly of feeling very safe about their art.
The music industry is in flux right now. You have your own imprint and have worked in A&R.
I wouldn't advise signing to any label right now. I think it's for the best. It's weeding out a lot of people that I think created some really bad music because it was survival — to pay college tuition — to satisfy the car dealer that's posting the ads on the radio station. The problem is it's easy for me to go, "those people," but it's not those people that say yes. You can tell somebody, "That airplane is going to crash. Get on it!" The musicians that think they're all like this and complain about labels are the ones that say yes. They're the ones that feel like, "If I don't do this and become a whore then I'm going to die." If music is bad, it's not the label's fault. But the people that play that game are being weeded out. It's great. I love it.
What will survive changing times in music?
We're going to be the only ones left. If you're in it for the loot, then basically you're gonna want to get another job. Become a lawyer.
Motocross racing has been and continues to be a huge part of your life. How does it translate into music?
I know what it's like to have a bone sticking out of my leg, bleeding. I know what it's like to walk around with a bone moving around in my shoulder for weeks because they can't cast it up. I broke 24 bones. So when a singer or a band holds something back and they go, "Oh, my hand hurts" — any kind of holdback — the fear of people afraid to expose themselves. I think the motocross sets a bar where I have a one up on every musician.
More than once I have heard you describe certain musicians and professionals as "a total Beavis." What does Beavis mean to you?
It's an attitude. It's using oblivious stupidity to do great things. The smartest people — the ones with the highest IQ — are the most miserable because they outsmart themselves. There are too many great reasons a smart person can come up with to not push. I think that [Beavis] mentality, or the spirit of it, is what drives platinum records without "being a whore."
You have said before that your mother Byron Katie [creator of a method of self-inquiry called "The Work"] has influenced your career.
It's like a razor-cutting technique to get the bullshit out of the way. It's a razor-cutting technique to expose the heart, and it's a tool that I use to do the mental surgery on the musicians to expose the music, expose the song — and it's worked since day one. r
www.myspace.com/iamrecordings
Steve Krolikowski is a member of Repeater and is contributing vocals and lyrics to a project known as Fear and the Nervous System, an alt-supergroup started by James "Munky" Shaffer of Korn.
