Greg: You probably hold the world record for most albums created in the shortest time, at the lowest price. I'd think you'd need some repeatable formula. But your actual work is all over the place!
Everyone loves custom stuff. Skateboards, cabinets. My own console is ridiculously customized. To me, there's nothing more custom than recording someone's project for them! But sometimes bands will say, "I want my drums to sound like this song." I've learned that they usually just want the listener to feel the same thing they feel when they listen to that, which has little to do with the recording. I've had a drummer mic'd perfectly, and another really good drummer plays the same drums, and they sound totally different. So many variables, including the player's mood, go into making something sound the way it does.
Ed: I'm sure there are people who would want a specific sound that a producer's known for, even if they don't have a human connection. But to me, the fascinating part about a recording studio is the social aspect. A lot of people who get into the business don't think about that.
When we get wide-eyed interns staring at all the knobs and buttons in the control room, I tell them the most challenging part of this job is being a psychologist. Meeting a new band, learning all their names, and very quickly deciphering their inner dynamics. "This is the person who's never been in a studio, and they're super nervous. I have to make them comfortable. This is the person who thinks they're great at everything, but they're actually not. This is the person who is going to have a bunch of ideas that no one likes, but if I turn them down they're going to go down a hole and perform terribly." I have to find a way to earn everyone's trust, without offending anyone or putting them on edge. Part of navigating that is not minding if people get mad at me. I can jump in and say, "Hey, man. I'll be honest; you're dragging on the bass." If the singer tells the bass player that, there can be hurt feelings or unnecessary conflict. I firmly believe that achieving camaraderie in the studio is the key to the success of an album, and that the bonds we form through the experience of creating and documenting art directly inform the final product.
G: Is that because you're in Bloomington?
[laughs] There's a Midwestern element to it. I interned at Electrical Audio, and admire the Steve Albini [Tape Op #10, #24, #87] ethos of being there to serve the band, not yourself. It makes sense they'd know best – they've already formed the band, worked out their relationships, and written the songs. At the same time, I'm not an extreme hands-off, none-of-my-business type of engineer. If I hear a bad bass note, I'll be honest and confirm whether or not it's intentional. If possible, I try to get to know the band beforehand with a phone or Zoom call. Some artists are eager for a producer to tell them what to do to make them stars. Damion Schiralli, another engineer/producer at the studio, is great with that. He can play any instrument, in every genre. I don't have that kind of resume. I prefer to work with bands like you guys, that have a specific vision in mind that I can help achieve. If a band doesn't know what they want, and it's my responsibility to turn it into something, I'll start my own band for that.
G: You named your studio after your family's heritage, but Russian Recording is also home to a large collection of Russian equipment, mostly microphones.
Yeah, I'm obsessed with high-end Soviet microphones, analog recording equipment, synths, amps, pedals, and outboard effects. The history is fascinating, and their industrial design is in a league of its own.
G: I grew up with the stereotype that Russian manufacturing and engineering were low quality knockoffs of what they couldn't get from the West.
But that's the stuff "for the people," made as cheaply as possible. The most cherished mics I've acquired were developed for orchestral recordings, government speeches, and especially for cinema, which Vladimir Lenin considered the most important art form. They weren't designing gear for capitalism or export. These are handmade relics, and way over-engineered. In some cases, less than a dozen were made.
G: We've all been recording for over 30 years, but opening our own studio always seemed too risky. What went through your mind when you made that decision?
I'm a fool with finances. The reason it's worked out isn't that I want to be rich or famous. By age 14, I knew I wanted to go to audio engineering school. I interned at Great Tracks Recording [Cleveland, Ohio] during my senior year of high school, then went through the Indiana University recording program, and then Electrical Audio right after graduating. I opened Russian Recording in 2003. Bloomington had a vibrant local scene, with great bands. I started telling them all, "Hey, I have this studio." It was DIY from the beginning. I rented an A-frame ski lodge in the middle of the woods. This was before smart phones, and bands loved to go out there, because they'd bring food and camp out at the studio. No internet, no distractions, just making records. I charged $250 a day, maybe 16-hour days, but I didn't care, I just wanted people to record with me. I loved that by the end of a five-day session, we'd all be best friends with a half a dozen inside jokes. Then I don't see them again until they come back a year later to make the next record. That's been my life. To fund this, I worked full-time jobs while also learning CAD [computer assisted design], researching how to build walls, and drawing up studio plans. By 2008 I was ready to build my own studio. I walked into the bank with a stack of records I'd produced and said, "I want to build a studio in downtown Bloomington. It's going to bring in people and put Bloomington on the map for music." This was 2008, the worst time to be asking for a bank loan. The loan officer said, "We should not give you this," but somehow, she believed in me. Then it was months of me and my buddies drywalling, wiring patch bays, and installing HVAC. Of course, the electrical cost way more than I'd expected. I was unemployed and in enormous debt. My very first session was recording the electrician for free for three weeks, in a studio that was still barely working.
Out of nowhere in 2011, my cat, Lil BUB, came into my life. She pulled me away from the studio for a few years; we ended up doing a lot of wild stuff together, including her own talk show and the first national fund for special needs pets. The DIY guy in me was like, "I'm doing it all myself. " It just kept getting bigger, and it took over my life. Lil BUB still has a presence in my life , even though she passed on four years ago. We have a nonprofit [Lil BUB's Big Fund] that was started from that for special needs pets, and my wife, Stacy Bridavsky, is the director of that. It's a very big part of our lives, but when BUB passed away in 2019 I focused all my energy back into my studio, with more passion than before. I figured out it can be sustainable business model, if you do it the right way.
G: What advice do you have for someone who feels like they're approaching burnout?
This job is not for everyone. I had to set some rules, especially when my kids were younger, and that was hard at first. "I would like to start at 9 a.m. At 5 p.m. I'm going to go home to have dinner and put my kids to bed. If I don't pass out, I might come back at 8 or 9, and we can do some more stuff." I would either arrange to have one of the other engineers fill in while I was out, or tell the band, "While I'm gone, why don't you work on that synth part that you haven't figured out, but are adamant about playing?" Or, "Listen through the takes and make notes." The bands loved it!
G: Time management might not sound very sexy, but I respect that you're willing to deromanticize the self-punishment model of making art. Deerhoof suffers from the same temptations of burnout. The fact that you had a daily framework helped us relax. "This is not going to be grueling test of survival."
I learned that from experience. When I started, I was all about not sleeping. "I'm going to be in the studio, chain-smoking for 20 hours straight!" But your record is going to come out much better if no one gets ear fatigued, and we can joke and have a little fun. I record bands on very tight budgets. Recording can be an intense, stressful, and inescapable situation. Clear communication and synchronizing expectations are crucial. Everyone who's ever made a record knows there's that point of diminishing returns. It's 2 a.m., you're trying to get that guitar part, and it's not happening because we've been at it for 13 hours, and every instrument sounds out of tune. Lately I've been booking sessions in small blocks. A night of setup, three or four days of bed tracks. Then a break, listen to the rough mixes we made on the last day, and figure out your overdubs. Then three days of overdubs and new roughs. Another break before mixing. When you return, you already know, "The bass is a little boomy." Or, "The chorus needs a tambourine." Fresh ears are critical for making a great record. I can accommodate a lot more bands on the calendar this way. It mixes things up, so I never get too "in the weeds" on any one project. Sending me demos beforehand helps a lot. If I already know what their songs sound like, I'm more into trying something special to suit the songs. I always ask if they're game; I'm not pushy. But, for example, after listening to demos from this band Nice Try, I said to them, "These songs all sound a bit similar. I've divided them into three categories: The slow, jangly songs, the super catchy rockers, and the aggressive punk rock ones. What if, for all the jangly ones, we'll only use dynamic mics, the drums will be in the big room, guitars in the medium room, and vocals in the small room? For the catchy songs, we'll only use tube mics, the drums will be in the dead room for that dry sound, and vocals in the live room?" Now I listen back, and I don't remember which was which. But they sound cool, and I can feel a subtle sonic movement. Or this great local artist, [Justin] Vollmar, owned a Tascam 234 cassette 4-track. It's their highest-end model, but still, we're talking a track width of 1/32-inch and a recording speed of 3.75 ips. For this record, Open Window, I thought it would be great to use my professional studio, the nicest mics, feeding our Sphere console and outboard gear, but record onto this 4-track. For vocal harmonies, everyone gathered around one Electro-Voice RE55 and did it live to one track. We mixed directly to 1/4-inch tape, so it never went into the computer.
G: Deerhoof's fear of taking a producer into a well-stocked, fancy recording studio was that it'd be the opposite of what you just described. We'd be paralyzed by the infinite choices. We have to go in already knowing which toys we're using. We have to be able to make snap decisions. There's an irony that getting creative often means limiting yourself.
Deerhoof's Miracle-Level was a prime example. You said right from the start, "The only overdubs we want are claps, organ, and piano." That defined the sound of the record. Time being the biggest limitation, I suggested you record your instrumental tracks in complete live takes. You were hesitant, but I was so stoked that you went for it in the end. I like to commit to sounds on the way in. I never mix in the box. I'm usually recording digitally, but I need an analog console. For many, using a console is about the sound, and it's true that certain consoles have their sound. Or you hear, "Outboard gear's better than plug-ins." Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't. But I'm not even arguing that. I'm a kid at heart and want to have fun, like a mad scientist. I must turn knobs and push things. I hate clicking around or looking at a screen too much. Perpetual tweaking through limitless possibilities leaves too much room for indecision. When I first opened the studio, it was simple. I'd tell clients, "We're mixing the song through the console to this 1/4-inch Studer B67 reel-to-reel deck. We'll make sure everyone thinks it sounds good, I'll print it to tape, and then that's it; we're moving on. You're trusting me to know how it translates." But some people would get nervous. I'd tell them, "All these little things that you're thinking about right now, you're going to listen back to this record ten years from now and have no idea what those things were. You're just going to hear the record for what it is." But Bloomington is a college town. I get older and everyone stays the same age! [laughter] As more people have gotten used to mixing in the box at home, some were adamant about being able to fix things later. That's when I realized I'm going to have to change the way I work, in order to accommodate that. You saw the system I developed.
G: Can you describe that system for the readers? I'd never seen that before, and I thought it was really smart.
I came up with this process in 2009 or 2010, when I recorded Brett Eugene Ralph's Kentucky Chrome Review. A classic country record, with so many layers. Will Oldham was on it, and there were something like ten banjos, seven guitars, a Wurlitzer, and an unbelievable amount of fiddle. Mixing was insane, and Brett wanted to be able to tweak the mixes. That's when I developed this process. I printed the stereo mix, and then I soloed the drums and printed them to a stereo track. I soloed the bass and printed it. I did that for all of the instruments, until I wound up with a couple dozen stereo stems of each instrument group. Each with the processing through the console and everything.
