How did you start the studio, Dangerous Rhythm in Oakland, with Kevin Army in the '80s?
I'll go back a little further. When I was 13, living overseas, I was the nerdy dude. Later I was in bands. We were playing a lot of Deep Purple, early Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Black Sabbath. I was really into that, but I was also into pop radio. I was always the nerdy guy who decided, "We should record our music." We moved to the States and I had a 4-track, so I conned my parents into allowing me space in the garage for a couple of years. Later, I sold all my instruments, and I got into debt with Mastercard. I had an 8-track studio; a Tascam 80-8, 1/2-inch deck, and a [Tascam] M-35 [mixer], which had eight channels. I ended up building a flanger, a spring reverb, and a couple of plate reverbs.
What sparked that interest in electronics?
When I was seven or eight, I was in Cub Scouts. One of those merit badges was that you had to learn how to wire a lamp. My dad, who was always a handy dude, was like, "Here's how you do it!" In retrospect, that was the moment that opened my mind to, "Well, if I can do that with electricity, then I can do that with electronics." I ended up developing a "noise reduction" for my cassette deck; a couple of capacitors that knocked down the high end. I built a remedial synthesizer that sounded terrible. When I got to the States, I ended up with a couple of cassette decks and a Peavey mono mixer. I recorded my band playing on cassette, then we'd play it through this mono mixer and sing onto another cassette deck. I walked this fine line between the technical aspects of making music and also being a player and a performer. I was always living in this weird sphere of influences and interests.
How did you come together with Kevin Army?
I was recording bands out of my parent's garage in Moraga, in the [San Francisco] Bay Area. He came by because he was looking for a place to record. I never ended up recording him, but we stayed in touch. When I moved and built my own studio in Oakland, he wanted to learn how to record, so I ended up teaching him what I knew and we started working together. It got to a point where he was so comfortable that I could have him engineer things, and/or I would go work somewhere else. When I was starting to get into 16- and 24-track - and he would run the studio. He started recording bands that I didn't have time for, became the second-in-command, and ultimately ended up buying the studio from me and running it for a number of years after I'd moved on.
What was the set up over there?
It was the same damn Tascam 80-8. I ended up buying a 16-channel Carvin board, but the EQ was really focused. You couldn't really mess with it, whereas my Tascam had parametric EQ. I could do a lot more with it. I didn't have any money to buy the new digital reverbs, so I ended up setting up a very acoustically dead room with all this padding to the right of the control room. I knew I was going to do vocals in there. I built this weird device where I could stick a Marshall cabinet in it and close it, but it went for another eight feet of fiberglass batt, so the guitar had a place to push the sound. I built a drum room that had some plywood in it. My entryway was very open and ambient, so I put mics out there. I also had a bathroom under the stairwell, and I painted it with all this enamel to make it really live. I used to send sound there while mixing. One day I had this idea, "I'll put a snare drum in there!" I put a speaker there, flipped a snare drum upside down, and duct taped it on there with a microphone. I had this bathroom in lieu of gated snare reverb. While mixing, and sometimes during tracking, I'd send the snare out there, bring it back, and compress and gate it. I became good at using my acoustic spaces to achieve what it was I wanted, because I didn't have digital reverb. I had a spring reverb, which didn't work for drums. I was on 8-track, so I had to record the drums to one or two tracks. I was mixing, EQing, compressing, and printing reverb while we were tracking. I learned to pre-mix a lot because I was working on an 8-track.
How did you make that transition from working on these projects that were 8-track to bigger bands and bigger projects?
That's a good question. If I were king of the universe everyone would make records on 8-track to start. It made me focus my idea of what I wanted [the track] to sound like in the future. With the advent of 16- then 24- and 48-track, and then digital, I think what's happened is that people ultimately postpone decisions. I'm mixing, and people send me this song with 150 tracks. It's got four tracks for the guitar mics. It makes mixing go a lot longer. Whereas when I mix off 8-track, it's like, "Okay, there's the drums. I can EQ it. Here's the guitar and voice; I can add reverb." Going to those bigger studios gave me the ability to spread things out a little more. But I still believe - and I've said this in other interviews - the zenith of making rock records was 24-track. I think if you can't make it on 24-track, then you don't have a song, or you don't have a band, or you don't have a performance. I got to the point where we'd record a song and it's like, "Okay, we're done!" Somebody's like, "I've got this guitar part." We'd either fit it in between the background vocal tracks, or, "What is it we can erase to put that guitar track on?" It made us start thinking about, "Should we add reverb to that tambourine so we can put this guitar on? Should we bounce something down and make some more tracks?" We had to be more focused and astute, as well as have a bit of experience and knowledge to make records. You go back to The Beatles, and they did it on 4-track. They had to know when they did that bounce, they were going to lose some high end or dynamics. It was such an education, and it was so important for me to get to a place where I could really serve bands best. Even with my 8-track at my parent's garage, I got to a point where I was engineering and helping bands. They'd ask, "Hey, what do you think of this song? What should we do?" I'd say, "Try this." Eventually I said, "This doesn't really benefit me, but if you want me to come to your rehearsal I can help you guys out before you come to my studio. We'll talk about your arrangements and everything. Then, when you come to the studio, you'll be better prepared, and you'll ultimately get more bang for your buck." I was charging $12 or $14 an hour, and for a lot of bands, that was a lot of money. It didn't help me make any more money, but it helped us have a better end result. That was a big shift to becoming a producer. Honestly, I didn't even know what a producer was. I knew I was an engineer. There was a book called Producing Hit Records by Dennis Lambert. It had a little flexi disc you could play. "Here's the bass guitar. Here's the guitar by itself." It was like, "Oh, okay. The producer is like a director in a movie." From engineer to producer was a much bigger leap than from 8- to 16- to 24-track. It was about how to serve the band as best as I possibly could. I never got into it for the money - I never thought I could earn a living doing this. But then I got to that place, and it was like, "How can I make this really good?" I started to get into the mindset of the bands. Instead of being a technical capturer, I became more of a painter of what they were trying to do. I tried to get into the nuances and the reasons [behind] why they were doing what they were doing. It wasn't about "how to get a guitar sound." It was like, "Maybe you want a really weird guitar sound." I learned to be a cheerleader, and to actively go to places that bands wanted to go. That was a big moment for me to realize, "I'm not here to win awards or be liked. I'm here to get in the guts of what they're doing." Then I'd go with them 100 percent of the way. I might argue at first. "Dude, that's weird. You want to sing your vocal through a guitar amp? We're going to commit to it." But once they'd go for it, I was all in, even if it wasn't the aesthetic I like. I had to get to the place where I was like, "I'm not here for me. I'm here 100 percent for the band. My name's going to be on it, but what is it that's going to make you guys go, 'Fuck yeah' when you walk out?" I'm sure you've experienced it, where guys are like, "We need more green, like the sound of an ocean through a tambourine." Being open to that dialogue, instead of being the lab coat technician guy; being more of the complicit partner in crime. Those are big moments for me, as a producer. Serving the band; their name is big on the cover. Wherever they want to go, we have to be open to going there.
What do you think qualified you to be able to have a valid opinion about the music?
Well, first of all I was playing in all different kinds of bands. I was playing drums in one band, bass in another, and guitar in another. I'm a remedial musician, at best, but I played enough and created. The original studio I built in my parent's garage was for my own record. Then I had all these friends who were saying, "Oh, I've got this band. Can we record?" I got sidetracked and started helping other people realize their vision. I was going to school to be an English teacher, and I finally graduated. But, meanwhile, I was also becoming more involved in music. Because I could play chords, I'd be able to say, "What if you did this chord here, or played this part like that?" I learned to offer up suggestions without ego that they could use or not. I'd use this phrase, "Hey, I could totally be high on crack, but I think if you tried this part here, it'd be cool." I'd plant the seed of something quietly. "It might be cool if we try a weird Nashville strum here through a Leslie cabinet." I'd let it sit. Two or three days later the guitar player would say, "Dude, what if we do this Leslie guitar thing?"
"Great idea!"
I learned to not say, "Well, that was my idea a couple days ago!" Then you're an asshole if you want credit for it. That's really the trick, if you're an involved producer.
The way a sound was committed influences the next step.
We do build on what's come before us. If you have a weird guitar sound, it's going to make you think differently about what you're going to add. This is really, really essential. It's important to commit to sounds. I do that often times with doubling guitars. People will have this really good guitar sound, and they'll want to double it. Do it with a different guitar, or a different amp. Invariably, one's going to sound a little brighter, and one's going to sound a little duller. They'll want to make the duller one brighter, and I'll have to say, "No! Just trust me." Then someone comes up with a new guitar part. Where are we going to put it? We're going to put it on top of the dull guitar part. The dull guitar part is reinforcing the other side, so that it gives it a bigger stereo feel. Now we can put that melodic part on top. This is so important about making records. When you hear a cool, fucked-up drum or guitar sound that informs the rest of the record.
When there are 100 tracks, where do you put sounds in a limited amount of space? The tracks can go on forever, but where are they going to fit? The sonic spectrum is limited.
One thing I try to tell people is the fewer tracks that you have, the bigger everything can sound. If you have drums, bass, and two guitars, it's huge. I'm a huge fan of wide-panned guitars. I like them to sound different, and I like to hear the personality. I'm a big, big fan of tracking live, and I've done a lot of records live with monitor wedges. I want to rewind a bit to The Beatles. Why does Paul McCartney's bass sound so big? Listen to a track. Ringo's drums have a ton of low end bass all over the drum kit. When you listen to the bass mic, it's pretty tight; but there's this wide, roomy bleed that makes the bass sound huge. It's hard to do in modern music, because people don't abide by it.
Let's talk a little bit about some of the records you've done. I know you produced The Replacements' Don't Tell a Soul after your neighbor across the way, Tony Berg [Tape Op #121], was let go.
I moved to L.A. in '88, and I was working at Slash Records as a staff producer and A&R guy. I was a fan of The Replacements. Slash was connected to Warner Bros. so I was in touch with them. They'd heard some of the Faith No More [records I did], but Faith No More hadn't broken through yet. I knew The Replacements were making a record, so I kept bugging people there. I learned an important lesson. I stayed in touch with Steven Baker, one of the main people, and Roberta Petersen who was the main A&R person. I said, "Hey, I want to produce The Replacements." They replied, "Oh, Tony Berg is going to do it." Later on, I said, "Oh, hey; I heard Tony's not doing it." Then they told me, "Oh, now Scott Litt [#81] is doing it." I kept saying, "I really want to work with this band." I had no track record, really. Someone in A&R called me up, and said, "Scott's not doing it." I had an in! I spoke with Steven Baker, and told him I was interested. He said, "Okay, let's get you in touch with Paul [Westerberg] and go from there." We talked and talked. I think because I had no real credentials, other than the New Monkees [a Monkees television show/album reboot], that it appealed to them in a way because it was such a left turn. They asked if I liked to drink a bit, and I said, "I don't drink at all." I got that gig on a phone call, but it was really about being persistent over the course of two months, every couple of weeks calling people at Warner Bros. That's how I got the gig.
Did you start over after Scott and Tony were off the gig?
Yeah, we made our own mess. Tony did some work, and I had those recordings. I really got into them. I had notes on these songs and everything; I wanted the gig so badly. We started from scratch and recorded everything brand new.
How were The Replacements to work with?
It was horrific! I think it was a make-or-break thing. They had been around the block, and people were hoping and expecting they'd break on through. They had a new guitar player, Slim Dunlap. I think he was the bulldog of the band and had to prove himself. I was a nerdy 28 year old guy. I wasn't hip or cool, but I was definitely genuine and authentic. I came in, guns a blazing. First of all, Slim and Paul came in and we worked on a track together called "They're Blind," with a drum machine. Once they started working with me, they called in Tommy [Stinson], the bass player, and Chris [Mars], the drummer. Then we went to the Musso & Frank Grill, and Michael Hill, the A&R guy, was there, and we were all having dinner. Later we were walking back down Hollywood Boulevard, and Tommy says, "You know what I think of you?" Then he spits right in front of my feet. All right, okay; got that! Throughout the recording process - and I'm not going to exaggerate - he threatened to beat me up a number of times. "You fuck with our guitars, I'm going to kick your ass." We're at Cherokee Studios, and every day these guys would say, "You've got to drink with us." Bev's [John Beverly Jones, engineer] like, "I don't drink while I'm working," and I don't drink [at all]. They finally said, "Okay, we're going to go out drinking." I said, "What's the point?" They said, "When you drink, you let your guard down and say what you really think about each other." Okay, fine. So Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday night, we'd go to the Rainbow Room, and everyone decided to start drinking. I'm a teetotaler, so I'm trying to be cool, nursing half of my drink. Tommy sits next to me and takes a big black Magic Marker, puts it on my right knee, goes right up over my pants, up over my favorite shirt, and down. I'm like, "Oh, okay." Slim pulls a chair up to me, faces me, and grabs my head. We're forehead to forehead, and he says, "You don't know shit. I could kick your fucking ass." I'm not a fighter, and I have a really high threshold, but I finally said, "Fuck you, man." Honestly, at that point I didn't give a fuck anymore. Every day I'd go home to my girlfriend and say, "I'm gonna quit this thing." The next day Slim forgot he'd said all that to me. He'd drank too much. He came in and was a little bit nicer. At that point I was like, "Fuck this." We were supposed to start at noon, and Bev Jones walked in at 4 o'clock. I could tell by his face something was up. He says, "I'm out!" I ended up engineering and producing this wagon train going to hell in a handbasket. We had Mike Bosley, who was a friend of theirs from way back, as the assistant engineer. Tommy splintered a [Gibson] Thunderbird bass guitar. He didn't just break it - he splintered it. Paul was lighting bills on fire. These guys didn't drive, so I'd pick them up in my little '82 Honda Accord at the Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood, and they'd be doing blow and drinking. One day we were up all night because Tom Waits came in. I was driving them back to the Roosevelt, and I used to do these handbrake turns in my car. I'd scream up to the red light and then pull on the handbrake with all these guys in the car. They're like, "What the fuck are you doing?" I was like, "Fuck you guys," I was so pissed off. After two weeks of these shenanigans I decided that I was going to make the record. Even if everyone in the band died, I was going to make that record. I got to a place where I was pretty much fine with everything; but every day I'd go home to my girlfriend and say, "I'm done with this. I'm quitting this. I'm really done with it." But I decided I was going to make the record. Yes, I was threatened if I touched their guitars. Paul would do a guitar part and I'd say, "That sounds great. Let's take it back a little bit and tune it." He'd say, "Oh, I forgot the chords." I'd reply, "Really?" They'd leave for the evening, and Slim would say, "If you touch our guitars, I'll kick your fucking ass."
Touch their guitars, like mess with them?
If I put them in time, or whatever. Literally, he threatened to beat me up numerous times. So yeah, I did a little bit in L.A., but once we got to Paisley Park I had a little bit of time. They were at home, so they'd go home with their wives, or girlfriends, or whatever. I had this Publison Infernal Machine, a French digital delay/reverb. I'd go bar by bar. People would complain the drums were lagging, but Chris was on it. Those guys were leaning so far forward. I'd take Tommy's bass and mute everything else. I'd take his bass on one track through the Publison into another track, and I'd go bar by bar. "Okay, he's 30 ms ahead, 40 ms ahead, but the bass is fine." I'd take the guitars and play them all back. That's what we did before we had access to computers. I'd put things in time. I worked a full day with them; I would go do that at night as well, and then come back and work again. They'd always ask, "Did you fuck with our guitars?"
It sounds like they wouldn't have remembered, regardless.
