What's the Earhammer background?
In '98, I was in a two-piece band. We both decided to go to recording school so we could record ourselves — to stay DIY, but to also get better documentation of what we were doing. That's when I started working in the school, CRI [California Recording Institute] in San Francisco, which is now defunct. I was able to use the facilities there, and kept doing that until it went out of business. Fast-forward a few years; I was doing some freelance [engineering] at [the underground venue] Burnt Ramen's studios, and [doing] whatever sessions I could get using my own devices. Eventually I was like, "Man, this isn't working. I want my own place, but I can't afford it." Then [fellow engineer] Sal [Raya] hit me up and said, "Do you want to do a studio?" This was around January 2004.
Did Sal live with you here?
He did. It was himself, his wife, and dog, at first. It was kind of a chaotic zoo! This place was really cobbled together. We didn't have the front room done.
But you were doing sessions within three months of moving in?
Yeah. The very first session we had here was a band called High Tone Son of a Bitch. Two guys from the band came down and did a lot of carpentry with us as a trade. Being in the music scene for a long time myself helped, and it got a lot busier than I expected. By 2008 I quit my day job. I had my work down to one day a week, and they were still willing to let me do it. But eventually I thought, "I feel like a jerk. I gotta quit."
And it's just you here now, right?
Yeah, Sal moved out in early 2013. As work picked up here for me, Sal started working for Hartman Pedals and became head of sound at the Oakland Metro [non-profit performing arts venue]. Both gigs were more solid for him. Cutting his overhead and freeing up space for the studio to expand was a good option for both of us.
What was your recording background, beyond CRI and Burnt Ramen?
I'd been recording since about '92 — lots of 8-track, recording my own bands, and my friends' demos.
So you weren't new to recording at all.
No, no. But Sal and I were super new to owning a studio! [laughs] I had a 1/2-inch Otari 8-track, and Sal had a couple of MOTU interfaces. We were able to cobble together 16 tracks. We'd try tracking drums on the 8-track and then layering everything. Sometimes we tracked all digital, depending on how fast people wanted to go — but, at best, we could get 16 tracks running. The console was a Ramsa 12-channel mixer. [laughs] It was really some clip-on mics, [Shure] SM57s, and an [AKG] D 112, and hope for the best. That was the first couple years. Every couple months we'd be, "Okay, we need another mic. We need some mic stands."
But you were busy.
I wouldn't say we were busy the first couple years. I was getting a couple of jobs a month. It was asininely cheap. [laughs] It was, "I don't have a real studio." It was a hundred bucks a day. Then it went to $150 a day, and, by 2008, I'd gone to hourly. I changed the rates to where I could pay my bills, get by, and still be affordable for clients.
Had you worked with, or for, other engineers much?
I've done some recording with other engineers: Dan Rathbun [Tape Op #10], Noah Landis [Neurosis], Kurt Schlegel [Lucky Cat Recording], and Mike Avilez from Burnt Ramen. I've done my rounds of checking out local engineers whom I respect and who have small operations. I always thought it would be cool to have a small operation. This isn't Fantasy Studios. But I missed the boat on interning. From the time I moved out when I was 18, it's been a scramble to get by and make bills, and unfortunately I wasn't able to go intern anywhere. I've pretty much learned through failing. [laughs] Throw mics up, and if it doesn't work, you learn your lesson.
Since you opened up have you done sessions in other rooms, or has it mostly been here?
I've done some work at other studios, but mostly I work here.
People like Billy Anderson [Tape Op #33] works everywhere...
Yeah! He's a Swiss Army knife!
You make hundreds of records in one place.
I love it when I go to another studio and see all the toys they have — it's super fun. But I remember when I was at London Bridge Studio [in Seattle]; we had a scary situation. We were going through mics and I opened up the Coles [4038] case and [the mic] looked super banged up. Fortunately there were two interns working, and I had an intern next to me. He said, "Oh man, I need to report that. I want them to know that you didn't do that." That's where things get nerve-wracking. I don't want to be responsible for that. If I blow my own gear up — and I have — it sucks, but I did it and it's mine. Plus, it's comfortable here. I feel like, "Hey, welcome to my house. This is your house right now."
Do you think of your studio as being part of a community?
Definitely. The studio was built in direct response to the community that was already here in Oakland. It's become a synergistic relationship between the music community and Earhammer. When the studio started out, it was in hopes of making an affordable studio for people like myself who didn't have that much money to record but wanted decent recordings — good enough to put on vinyl. At the time there weren't that many affordable studios. It was either you record a demo in your rehearsal space, or you go to a fancy spot. There wasn't much of a middle ground.
You're busier than ever. It seems the community aspect is a big part of that.
Definitely. If I was to say, "Screw it," and not play music anymore, and not go to shows, I would become detached from the community I'm trying to document and be a part of. I'm only a small piece of that puzzle; but when the studio started, I was really active in bands and was friends with a lot of the people that I had the privilege of recording. Had I been some kid who decided he wanted to record and went to school for it, I wouldn't have gotten any work.
It's so easy for engineers to think that if they got just a few more nice microphones, better converters, or another compressor, they would attract more clients. It has nothing to do with that.
Yeah. I'm friends with these people, too. Most of the sessions I have are [composed of] friends.
Is it hard for you to charge friends?
Of course. [laughs] It's always hard, but I had a friend a long time ago say, "If somebody is really your friend, they're going to understand your value and pay for your time. They're not really friends if they expect everything for free." I don't necessarily live by that credo. For a long time it was, "Uh, do you mind paying me? I know we agreed on this before you came in, but..." It's gotten to the point over the last few years — I mean, that's my rent check. It gets easier when billing somebody is survival. Most of my friends understand that.
You have an MCI JH-16 2-inch tape deck.
It's a complete headache. I love it, but I had to put it to sleep for a while. It's a beautiful sounding machine, but it got to a point where I was losing too much money to record bands on it. It would break, every session. Then you're paying someone $50 an hour, plus parts, to come in and fix it. Most bands, when I talk to them about it, they don't care. I actually have a lot of bands that are excited about digital. They're not paying $300 for a reel of tape. They can punch in and out, and they can do 47 takes of solos.
