I came to know your work mostly through Tim Lawrence’s book about Arthur Russell, Hold On to Your Dreams [Arthur Russell and the Downtown Music Scene, 1973-1992].
Tim did a great job on that book. I'm 73 now, so Tim's book came out around retirement age for me. We may look back now at the ‘70s no wave and think, “Wow! That was an important time for music!” But at the time we were on the fringes. I would work on a disco record that would go to sell millions of copies, and at the same time we were in the studio with groups like DNA or Arthur Russell, who were so obscure to the mainstream. But the way it's worked out is that now that’s what people are into.
The scales of time have balanced it out.
Yeah, the art has triumphed!
That’s encouraging to hear. I caught the tail end of the big studio system, and it was very homogenous and sterile. I was at Sony NYC at the turn of the millennium.
Do you know Dominick Costanzo? We worked together at Delta Recording in 1973. That's how we started out.
Get out of town. Really?
Yeah. We’re still friends to this day. As you know, he went on to be a big cheese in the tech world; maintenance, construction, and all of that. But back then, we were both desperate, young, 22 year olds. I certainly understand what the music business was like in the early 2000s; those monolithic places like Sony or Hit Factory, which was probably the zenith of all that. When I was growing up on Long Island, I was a loner kid, I loved to draw. In school I was in the arts program with the art kids; people who eventually became big deals in the commercial art world. Mark Larson was one of my classmates; he was the art director for CBS and Arista Records. Also Guy Trebay, who until about last year was writing the “Style” section for the New York Times.
How did you end up recording music?
I was always into electronics. I had built a radio station out of my house when I was about 12 years old and had been building recording equipment as well. One of my schoolmates and friends was Michael Altshuler. His father, Robert Altshuler, was a big deal at Columbia Records. Mike said, “I have a basement and a band. Let's do stuff.” So, we put together a recording studio with some RCA microphones in his father's record library. We wound up making some recordings, and I said, “This is cool!” I had no musical experience at that time.
You weren't playing music?
No, I wasn't playing.
But you were building gear?
When Michael and I decided to do this, I built a mixer, and we recorded to 2-track. I figured out overdubbing by listening to records from The Beatles and whatnot. It was eye-opening because there I was, doing this stuff; we were just making it up and there was no Tape Op! [laughter] Another one of my classmates was Deborah Walker, and her father was Saul Walker – one of the founders of Automated Processes Inc. [API]. In 1966 or 1967, we went into the city to the AES Show and entered this obscure world, away from the mainstream kids. I thought, “Okay, so this is how they make records!” I saw these 8-track tape recorders there, and they were all shiny and amazing! The first 8-track I saw was a Scully 284, and they would let us move the controls. I saw this world and I said, “This is for me!” I wound up picking up the guitar and learning it, just doing what I could do. The next step was I went to Woodstock, and I had my mind blown. From that, I wound up moving to New Mexico with a friend of mine who's a drummer. We landed in Albuquerque, New Mexico, in the winter of ’69/’70. I traded my acoustic guitar for a Fender Telecaster and an amp. I had brought a little Ampex 600 [tape deck] with me, as well as two microphones. We started making some records, and I became an engineer over at the local studio. When Bo Diddley came through town and needed to make a demo, I was like, “Oh man!” I joined a group called Fast Eddie – actually named after a guy called Fast Eddie – and eventually I became his roommate. He was from Lubbock, Texas, so one time we drove out to Lubbock and wound up going into Norman Petty Studios [in Clovis, NM] and I engineered some demos. The studio was mostly Ampex MX-10 mixers, and it had one of those green Altec [436C] compressors, which had the world's slowest attack time! Anyway, I was working with these people and wound up in local bands that backed up some traveling musicians. The University [of New Mexico] would have performances – at the time Route 66 was still a thing – and we would get people like Bo Diddley, Carl Perkins, or Chuck Berry. In 1970 or 1971 these artists were already considered “from the past.”
What got you back to New York?
Two things happened that were important: I was broke, and I needed money! [laughter] Also, I realized that I needed to be in a more mainstream place because nobody there considered what they did important. I know that sounds maybe…
…for some of us it's more of a calling than a hobby.
That's so true. So, I went back to New York with my guitar, got a room in a flop house, and I wound up getting a job in a recording studio. I took the first job I could get, and it worked out to be a great job. I ended up at Sanders Recording Studio on 48th Street between 6th and 7th Ave. Manny's Music and Sam Ash Music were right across the street.
That was the block. Music Row.
Yeah, I was in this recording studio that had an Ampex MX-10 mixer, an Ampex 351 mono machine, and an Ampex 354 2-track. The big highlight were the Presto cutting lathes. We would make these recordings and then go out in the other room and cut a disc. Or if the artist was really cheap, we would just hit record on the cutting lathe and go straight to disc. One of the artists that came out of Sanders Recording Studio was Tiny Tim. I remember thinking, “This is cool!” On one hand I wanted to have a hit record and to be the name on that record. But on the other hand, I thought, “You’re never going to see shit like this!” I mean, Tiny Tim was pretty weird, especially then. I wound up moving to the Village and getting a studio apartment there. I was in a jam band with Richie Ash from Sam Ash Music, and I started working with lots of people. What happens in these situations when you're very young is that people come up and say things like, “We don't have any money, but this could be a great opportunity.” I was being taken out to a studio in New Jersey after work every night that was owned by Russ Damon, meeting all sorts of people. Finally, I wound up saying, “It's time for me to transition out of Sanders.” I walked over to the Palace Theater, which was on the corner of 47th and Times Square. There was a studio [Delta Recording Studio] up there, and I walked up and asked for a job. I must have come in at the right time. Dominick Costanzo was there – he was interested in recording, but more so the technology and science of it. Jon Fausty had just left, and he was a big name in the Latin music world. I walked in and they said, “Do you know anything about Latin music?” Of course I said, “Sure, sure.” But I really knew nothing, and now I had to record a Latin band. I was looking around and I said, “Wait a minute. I don't see a drum set.” I saw timbales, an upright bass, a piano, a big smokin’ horn section, and I'm thinking, “I have no clue!” So, I made friends with the musicians, talked to them, and they helped me figure out where the mics should go. It ended up being great! Now, in New York at that time, rock ‘n’ roll was not a thing. There was rock ‘n’ roll, but that was not the music of the city. It was these types of Latin bands. They would play eight hours a night at the clubs, and their music was very sophisticated.
These guys are always playing, and they’ve got chops. They can read down a chart and can sit in and just…
…do it. Right. It used to freak me out when there was a 2 chord in a 1, 4, 5 progression. These guys are playing these major, major parts, and it’s all very cool. I fell in love with this. These guys were playing in bands at night, but during the day they would be doing jingles and sessions – they would do one after another. One of the guys that I met at that time, Mickey Sevilla, eventually wound up with [Dr. Buzzard's Original] Savannah Band, which was August Darnell’s [Thomas Browder, aka Kid Creole] band, who I wound up doing many records with. I met the superstars of Latin music, like Tito Puente coming in.
What was the studio like at Delta?
They had a Scully 8-track. If you came up on these things, you know that 8-track technology definitely informed the way music happened. We wound up getting a 16-track. The owners were best friends with the head technician at RCA Studios, and we got an [Ampex] MM 1000, which is a monster. If you wanted to punch in on two different tracks, you’d be standing there like an octopus with your hands on the buttons and everything. In those days, studio [control rooms] were not really for musicians or producers. I'd be sitting there and right behind me would be all the machines. We had all fluorescent lights in the control room! We had a very reflective live room, and Dominick had read somewhere that if you use a big patio umbrella over the drums it focused the sound, so he built this device with this big patio umbrella that was like, “Wow!” I bought some track lighting and put that in the control room.
Were you guys getting the run of the show from the owners, and working most of the sessions without much supervision?
During the day, we worked with voice recording and jobs like that and we were very professional. But we were having success in the Latin field, and people would show up who eventually became very, very big names. We ended up recording Jimmy Sabater, the lead singer for the Joe Cuba sextet back in the 1960s. Their song, “To Be With You,” had been a big hit in the city. We wound up recording a disco version because it was such an iconic New York song. Nobody back then thought past New York City, as far as the disco world was concerned. Bobby Marin was the producer, and he and I worked on many projects together. Bobby was buddies with Louie Ramirez, Jimmy, and everyone; we all hung out, smoked a ton of dope in the control room, and it was like a big party. My girlfriend at the time, Gretchen Studier, would sing the background lines. When this record came out in ’76, I didn't know the disco world; I knew the Latin world. This underground thing with Latin artists was the beginning of making disco records for me. Bobby called from Frankford/Wayne Mastering Labs asking, “How do we cut this?” There was this new thing where they cut a 12-inch at 45 RPM instead of 33.
Because it’s louder?
It's hotter, right? I was like, “Sure let's do it.” If you ever get the record, it runs at 45. It was strange.
The 12-inch single became a new format. The speed that a single was able to get into a DJ’s hands, and into the clubs, became important for the workflow in your studio later, right?
You have to realize that until the late-‘60s you only made an album when you had a hit single. It wasn’t until the mid-‘60s, with The Beatles and the British invasion, that full-length albums had any meaning. But what you're saying is true. People would say on a Monday, “Put out a record and get it in the clubs by the weekend!” That's important. Albums were not that important in that world for a lot of reasons. One of them was speed, the other is that there was almost as much money to be made in just putting out a 12-inch. You only had to do two recordings!
Of course, less studio time. How did Blank Tape studio come together?
While I was at Delta, I had also been working in the studio in New Jersey owned by Russ Damon. They had a console sitting in a closet with Fairchild components, so I traded him work for the console. I got a loft right in Chelsea – at this time anything below 42nd Street was considered ridiculous. There was Electric Lady Studios, but that was an anomaly. I found the loft space, which in New York was defined as 20 feet by 30 feet, so I bought two spaces – the corner piece. You would see this “build to suit” sign at these places, and so one day a guy comes in and asks, “Where do you want the walls?” I said, “Oh, great! Put one here, here, and leave a hole here so I can put a window in for the control room.”
No blueprints or anything?
Right. As the walls were going up I put in fiberglass insulation and stapled burlap over it. I worked on the console parts that I had, and it was just a question of how quickly I could put it together. In the meantime, I was working in this recording studio in New Jersey and making some money. I would make some cash and go down to what was called Radio Row. I would walk down the street and there'd be an open bin of capacitors, or an open bin of army surplus parts. I would spend all my money on parts and then go back home to the loft and put it all together. I built an Ampex 4-track, 1/2-inch machine from a 3-track and some spare parts my friend got in trade. And I built the console for 16 channels. Once that came together, I would record whatever came through the door! I would record these beat poets from downtown. One day this poetry guy said, “I'm bringing in a bass player and I’m going to play saxophone.” He came in, and the bassist he brought was Ron Carter. This guy said, “Someday Ron Carter will be famous, and this will be an important record.” I guess he was right, but at the time it was this weird thing. And that's what I wound up doing – a lot of strange stuff!
But you were working! How long was it until those clients that you developed longer relationships with started coming through the door?
I needed a piano – a real grand piano – and a 16-track tape machine. I needed the financing, so I got partners. We went to Steinway Hall and played about six pianos with a piano player. We liked the Model M series, so one of the partners pulled out a roll of bills and paid for it in cash. It was nuts! [laughs] After this, we had a lot of jazz artists coming in, like Stanley Turrentine. The musicians would say, “Oh, it's good. I'm going to tell my friends.” All of a sudden, we’re working with Adelphi Records and a lot of the more obscure jazz labels from that time. They seemed to like the vibe and how I recorded them. I worked with a guy who had come down from Harlem, and he said, “I'm going to have my backer call you.” The backer was Bobby Robinson, who's a legend up in Harlem; he had Bobby’s Records and Tape Center store. Bobby would book a few hours on Saturdays, and he would send down these artists who would come in and do their thing. The perspective is funny when you're sitting in a recording studio and the world is coming to you. You don't feel any real need to go out. I hear questions like, “How did how did you meet the artists you were producing?” I never left the studio! I went to a disco two times, and that was when my wife, Lola Love, had the record “Wax the Van” and started performing at The [Paradise] Garage. It was thousands of guys dancing, going nuts, and I had no clue!
Was there anybody else in the neighborhood doing anything similar?
Down the block from me was a place called Sundragon Studios. They were known because they recorded the first Talking Heads album [Talking Heads: 77]. I was working with a group called Television. They said, “We're going to do our album at Sundragon, but the room is a bit claustrophobic.” They would come to me to do the demos for that. Between me and Sundragon was a rehearsal studio that had a little TEAC 4-track. Across the street was a place that eventually became important in the jingle world, Elias Audio Branding, so the street had a lot of activity. We were on the corner of 20th and 6th Avenue – if you know the neighborhood there's this big loft building and that's where we were. Also on the corner was a deconsecrated church that eventually became The Limelight disco. The disco world was a very niche thing. Now, if you think about it, selling a 100,000 copies in five or six weeks would be considered amazing. But back then, it was like, “That's not the big time! Big time is when you sell two million albums.” The people who did this kind of music were people like Arthur [Russell] and his crowd. Ernie Brooks, from The Modern Lovers, was in the studio with Arthur and The Necessaries. We had Television in, and they made “Little Johnny Jewel” on the 4-track in 1975. [Their first 7-inch. -Ed.]
One of the people that you worked with was Patrick Adams, who was famous as a dance music producer.
At the time, I was also working with Bobby Robinson's people. Leroy Burgess, a prolific songwriter, came down and said, “I’ve got a friend, Patrick Adams.” Patrick Adams came down and recorded a version of a song for Barclay records in France. He said, "I like this studio. It's great.” Patrick was a one man band. We had a UREI [962 Digital] Metronome – no beats per minute, it was frames per beat! He took the sound of the metronome, we rolled off the highs and would boost the bass, and all of a sudden we had a bass drum! Then he'd play on top of that.
I remember reading that story and thinking, “Okay, this is a super creative person.” No one gives you permission to do something like that. But you, as an engineer and studio owner, were able to offer an environment where he felt free enough to be able to do these things.
That's how I first started working with him. He couldn't go into a major studio in New York on the cheap, and they were not that comfortable. He would say, “Give me the evening.” Sometimes I would just leave him the keys. There was the freedom to do that. Remember, a lot of disco, and a lot of this underground stuff, was made by really weird people. Arthur Russell came in the studio one day with a newspaper folded into a tri-corner hat.
That's on the cover of the Another Thought record.
