Was music a part of your lives growing up?
Jack Douglas: Oh, yeah. We're both musicians. Jay Messina: My father was an upright bass player. He had a trio of vibes, bass and guitar. When I was eight he bought me a little set of orchestra bells. All through high school and for a while after I played in
a band, until I got big into the studio.
Was your thought that you always wanted to be in the music industry?
JM: I knew, mostly from my father. He said, "Get into electronics and keep the music on the side." What I wound up with instead was a perfect marriage of both. I've been really fortunate — I've been playing with music my whole life.
JD: My father worked in a freight yard in the Bronx. Things would always "fall off" the freight trains. My part of the Bronx was really terrible — a lot of gangs, a lot of violence. I liked it; I thought it was okay. So off of a train "fell" a tape recorder and a guitar, and he gave them to me. He knew I liked my grandmother's piano. He thought, "We can't afford a piano, so here's a recorder." I played in bands when
I was very young. I absolutely thought it was where I was going. My parents always instilled in me that you could do whatever you wanted to do. Both my parents gave me a ton of confidence and love.
JM: I've always gone after what I like to do. When people ask me, "What should I do?" I always tell them to pick whatever they like to do the best, what's the most fun, and go after it. I've been listening to, and playing with, music my whole life. I have a friend who asked, "When are you going to retire?" I said, "Why would I do that? This is what I like to do. It's what I would do in my free time."
You two met at Record Plant in NYC?
JD: Jay was the jazz and jingle king over at Record Plant, and I was his assistant engineer. He used to do his dates either early in the morning or all night long. The jingle dates were all really early in the morning. I would write out 40 pieces, set up, and within three hours we'd do a whole airline commercial with a full orchestra, background singers, a lead singer and an announcer. They'd leave with 28 and 58 second commercials.
JM: We'd have about five minutes to get the sound.
So they'd walk in and everything was ready to go?
JD: The chairs and mics were my job.
Jack, were you working there before Jay?
JD: Yeah. I was already at Record Plant. Jay came over from A&R [Recording].
So how long did you assist Jay?
JD: Well, when I was assisting for Jay I was on the cusp of becoming a staff engineer. I had been assisting for most of the engineers there — Roy Cicala, Shelly Yakus (Tape Op #31), Jack Adams — and I was just at that point where I was doing 4-track demos with people. From Jay I really learned how to get it done, make a decision and dedicate the sound to tape. But there was one thing I could never do: when he did an edit, he never marked the tape. He would just grab it at the capstan and lay it on the edit block, because it was the same distance from the playback head to the capstan.
JM: Once you know the distance, then you find the spot on the editing block, so you know to put your thumb there and then just cut. You could do it a lot faster that way.
And you always nailed it?
JD: Always. I was too chicken to do that. Do you ever want to splice a little sliver of tape back into to a tape? No! [laughs] So yeah, we had so much fun. Jay, you had done some rock over at A&R, like Ten Wheel Drive...
JM: The first J. Geils Band...
Jay, where did you get your start?
JM: I started at a place called Don Elliott's. He had Les Paul's 8-track machine. That was my first gig, on a 1- inch, 8-track machine in the mid-'60s. There were only five 8-track machines in the world then. It was a great luxury for my first studio gig. I was at Don's for about a year and a half; then I went to A&R for about four years, where I learned to cut vinyl. I got my chops together by going in on the weekends with my friends, who were Steve Gadd, the Brecker Brothers and Mike Mainieri. Mike was getting his arranging chops together, so I'd say, "Bring the band in and you can leave with a tape copy." So it worked out for both of us.
With all these heavy hitters? Not too bad.
JD: There was a group called White Elephant. It was all the best players in New York. I used to assist Jay from midnight 'til 6 in the morning.
JM: If you want a good drum sound, you start with a good drummer, you get a good set of drums, and you work your way up from there.
JD: Jay skips over the fact that he was a mastering engineer at A&R. Apparently he was quite a good mastering engineer, because he trained Bob Ludwig. Many years later Jay and I went up to Maine to Bob's [Gateway Mastering] to master a Supertramp album [Some Things Never Change] we had done together. As Jay walked in the room, Bob [mimes Bob bowing to Jay]; which is kind of cool, considering who Bob Ludwig is.
Do you still master?
JM: Once in a while. Mostly we go to Sterling Sound and work with either George Marino [RIP] or Greg Calbi [Tape Op #86].
JD: Those guys are both Record Plant alumni. We worked with them for a million years. George Marino had The Cutting Room, which was the mastering room for Record Plant. Greg Calbi was our assistant, who we talked into becoming a mastering engineer. When George went to Sterling we had the facility, but we had no one to cut masters. So we kind of said, "Greg, you're the guy." I think at first, Greg resisted. They taught him how to do it, between Roy, Shelly and Jay, and now he owns Sterling. [laughs]
Was the debut Aerosmith record [self- titled] the first time you worked together, with Jay engineering and you producing?
JM: I think so. JD: The first album I produced was for Crowbar, a Canadian
band. After that I produced Alice Cooper [Muscle of Love]. I was producing and engineering, so it was a little different. Bob Ezrin [Tape Op #31], who talked me into producing, wanted me to do that out of town. So for the Crowbar album we cut the basics and then I went to Canada so I could fuck it up and no one would know. It was a training ground. He had already said he was giving me Alice Cooper, and he wanted to see if I could handle this. And then Aerosmith came along, due to the New York Dolls connection.
Why do you think Bob Ezrin thought you'd be a good producer?
JD: I know exactly why. When I was engineering the New York Dolls album — the first [self-titled] album — Todd Rundgren [the producer] wasn't coming to the sessions, so I had to do everything. Todd didn't really show up until the mixes. He got in over his head with those guys; they were pretty hardcore. You know the famous story: Todd loved harmony on everything, and David Johansen was doing just a live vocal to drive the band. Todd said to Johansen, when he came into the room, "That's going to sound great when we put lots of harmonies on it." And David said to him [in his best roughed up David Johansen voice], "Harmony!? Are you accusing me of having melody?" [laughs] And he was taking a piss really, because that was David. But Todd was really affected. He felt threatened. So he didn't show up very often, but we managed to get the record done. Two things came out of that; one was that Bob said, "You know you're the producer." And two, Leber-Krebs, who managed the Dolls, thought it was a miracle the record even got done — everyone was so strung out. So my reward for recording New York Dolls was their baby band, which was Aerosmith, who they also managed.
I think sometimes the most important quality for a producer to possess is being able to handle personalities.
JD: I have to agree with you. I think the reason why we've had so many returns over the years is because the act and the art of making the record is always a positive one. It's always, "Let's talk about how we can move this record forward. Let's see how we can expand our artistic horizons. Let's talk about what this record is about. Let's rehearse so we're in the ballpark when we go into the studio, but let's leave enough room for improvisation." All of those things are very important, and it also makes the artist feel like he or she has a collaborator. If you need me to write with you, I'll write with you. If you don't, that's fine. Let me see what your lyrics are like; maybe I can make a suggestion. You don't need that? That's fine too. Let's see what the meaning of this is. Maybe the album should have a darker feel overall, or perhaps it should be brighter. Maybe we should do some songs in between keys.
With some artists you can quickly feel them pushing back.
JD: As soon as you feel that, you see where else you can go. I've done some records where all I've done is facilitate making the record, and I've done other records where I'm like the fifth Beatle — you're right in there and you're in the middle of it.
I know Aerosmith have said that about you.
JD: Yeah, totally collaborative, all the time. JM: It's almost always fun, and that makes for great communication between the band and Jack. Jack is really good at creating that vibe. There's a certain sense of humor you have to have about it; a lightness that is an essential part of the whole creative process.
JD: It's not brain surgery. We don't have anyone's lives in our hands.
Though some artists would probably disagree!
JD: I usually tell them, "Look, it's gonna come out great if we have fun doing it." Maybe you can't tell that to Lou Reed. [laughs] I wouldn't attempt to.
You guys did a Lou Reed record.
JD: Berlin. The darkest album I've made. [laughter] Was it a fun process? JD: Of course. We had fun. I know Ezrin did. Lou was doing his thing.
All three of you did it [Jay, Jack and Bob Ezrin]?
JD: We all worked on it. JM: At different times. Jay, you engineered the whole record? JM: No, just parts of it. JD: I engineered parts of it. It was a lot of, "Lou? Are you
there? Lou? He's gone." [laughter] But it's a brilliant album. That's a lot of Ezrin. Bob has really taught me a lot about the psychology [of] dealing with artists.
Jay, I saw a quote where you were talking about the moment when everything just seems to come together — the song, the vocal, the lyric, and the musicianship — when all the stars are aligned.
JM: I've felt those moments a lot of times. I used to do a lot of records — early on, especially — where the band and the vocals went down at the same time, and you feel the magic instantly. Of course you need a good song for it to happen. Some of the live records I've done with strings, horns, the rhythm section and the singers going down at once. It's magical. And then they want to go in and fix one vocal line. I won't touch anything. They'll go in and sing one line come in and say, "What'd you do? I sound different." And the truth is I didn't do anything different. There's a certain magic. I notice it with singers the most. When they're singing live and getting caught up in the magic, it really comes across.
JD: I look forward to that feeling every time I walk into a studio. When you hear it and it comes together, it's the biggest rush. That's what I live for. I totally love it.
I feel the other "mysterious" part of being a producer is creating the vibe that can set the stage for those moments to happen.
JM: And you have to be secure enough to know when not to say anything, which is the best you can offer sometimes. JD: Going into the studio with John [Lennon] to record Double Fantasy was a classic example of somebody who'd totally psyched himself out. He was so insecure. You're talking about a guy who already hated his voice to begin with. He sent me demos and he'd intro the song with, "This is another shitty song. I'm gonna give this one to Ringo." The whole thing was narrated with negative feelings and insecurities. Then, on top of all that, having to do rehearsal and everything else so the band didn't even know whom the artist was. I was singing — they didn't know whose record it was. The studio didn't know who was coming in. No one knew anything.
Rolling Stone voted him the fifth best singer of all time.
