When you were a kid, what was the first thing that caught your attention with music?
To me it seems strange. Having done this my entire life, it still seems strange that it's a job or a career. There are no other professional music people in my family. I have a cousin who's an opera singer, and it's just the two of us. Music, however, was a thing that was always going on in my house. It was mainly Motown coming from my dad's side – I was probably the only five-year-old who knew all the words to every Sam Cooke song. The salsa records and Santana came from my mom. I didn't know what an engineer was until – I remember the very specific moment: I was in my older brother's car, and we were listening to “Kiss,” the Prince song. A lot of Prince songs famously have no bass on them. I was 10 or 11. I asked, “Chuck, what is that? Why is the drum doing that ‘padda-duhn’?” I was trying to mime it. He said, “Oh, it sounds like the engineer put a reverse reverb on it because there's no bass in the song, so they had to fill it out.” My brother was into music production and DJ'ing, so he had the language for it. I asked, “The who did what? What's an engineer?” I thought that music just happened. That was the first tangible time that I even knew that there was anybody involved in that process. It certainly was not a moment where I was thinking, “I'm going to be an engineer.” I was always a fan of music, and much at my brother's behest, listening to things that the average 10-year-old was not listening to. For every New Kids On The Block tape, he said, “You have to listen to A Tribe Called Quest and De La Soul.” In high school, my taste evolved. It wasn't until college where I pivoted from doing mainly sports to caring about music in a way where I wanted to interact with it.
I heard you DJ’d. Would you consider that your official foray into music?
I DJ'd a lot when I went to NYU [New York University], at every little tavern, bar, or dive that would have me. All vinyl. I was seeing what music did, and how these things go together. People seemed to react in ways when there would be an unexpected thing blending in underneath. I would also have the challenge where I'd look around the room and think, “I don't know that guy, but I'm going to play his favorite song right now.” Or, “That person's not dancing. How do I get them to dance?” It was cool to not be responsible for being super social at the party. I wouldn't have to come up with small talk because I was DJ'ing. That’s when I got the bug, and the understanding of how music is this thing that we can describe and talk about the theory of and the DNA of, but at the end of the day it does a thing. That's when I started meeting a lot of people where, on paper, we probably had nothing in common other than music. Around that time, I also had a radio show on WNYU, which was an amazing privilege to be broadcasting on FM radio in New York City as a 19-year-old. I was interviewing lots of cool people because it was a pretty big college station. I remember spending a lot of my time on Friday nights after my radio shift in a record room that maybe held 10,000 records and CDs. I thought, “Well, somebody curated this.” A music director listened to it, and there was something in there that was given a production value of why this needed to be in the archive. I would sit there and think, “Okay, I'm going to go to the M's tonight.” I had my little laptop, and I would be ripping the CDs. I was trying to expose myself to music. “Mercury Rev, what the heck is this?" "George Harrison? Huh?” I saw this opportunity where I was thinking, “All I have to do is pay attention to it.” That's how I started thinking about interacting with music, whether it was broadcasting or DJ'ing. The first thing that I produced, like most people who are DJ'ing, was making extended edits. My mom got me a copy of Pro Tools LE for my birthday so that I could chop up songs, and my brother taught me how to use an [Akai] MPC so I could make extended edits. I did bootleg remixes and spent ungodly amounts of money pressing at Hub-Servall [Record Mfg. Corp.] in New Jersey – 50 or 100 copies of a vinyl to give out as promotion. That's when I first started making stuff, and people liked it.
Did you have a DJ name?
DJ Tab. I kept it pretty simple. And then I got a harebrained idea of making a record. I don't know why. It could have been a 19-year-old ego thing, or it could have been me dramatically underestimating what it takes to make a record. I was getting a lot of experience talking to a lot of producers, as well as other DJs and people that I liked in the New York scene. This was early 2000s New York, so it was quite a scene. There were the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and Liars, and TV On The Radio all within three blocks of each other in Williamsburg. People would let me hang out at studios and I'd pretend I knew what I was doing. I guess I've always had the personality of the tech bug; I like taking stuff apart and seeing how it works. Luckily, I've always been technically adept. I thought, “Maybe I can crack the code on how to make a record.” I did a few demos on my [TASCAM] Portastudio 424, which I still have sitting over here, and I could fly on that thing. I had an MPC, a drum kit, a [Roland] JUNO, an ARP [synthesizer], and a Roland drum machine of some sort. I was making instrumentals. I borrowed guitars and instruments from people and started making little demos. Then that got attention. Some people – the right people, I guess – liked it. I was thinking, "Wow, this is going rather easy. This is pretty cool. Maybe I'll get signed.” I was 20 by then. I didn't know how to engineer anything, but I knew that the snare didn't sound as good as [Radiohead’s] OK Computer, so I'd move the microphone a quarter of an inch and try. I started working with a producer who had way more accolades than me, who I assumed knew what he was doing, and who I won't name in this interview. Then the wheels fell off. All of a sudden, there were rules. I went into a professional studio, and I was berated about why things didn't sound good and told, “You can't do that because it's going to distort.” I asked, “Is that bad? I don't know." But I went with it, because I was trying to be open to the fact that this person knew more than me.
Right.
Then I came home, and I was listening. There was a CD-R of the engineer's mixes and then my demos of the same song. I put it on the CD player at home and I was trying to come to terms with it. I listened to his mix and thought, “Oh, it's not that bad. I'm probably being too precious and having demo-itis.” I walked over to the CD player to write a note down and I saw that it was my mix, and I went, “I think I need to do this myself.” Because I didn't know what I was doing at all, but if I'm removed from the bias of it being good and professional, I knew how I felt.
I love what you just said, “Removed from the bias of it being good and professional.” That's so good.
That was the first studio I'd ever walked into in my life. I was the client, and there were big speakers and gear that I'd only seen in magazines. I was thinking, “I guess they know what they're doing.” It was coming to a point where I was dreading going to the studio, so finally I said, “If anyone's going to fuck up my record, it's going to be me.” That's when I started finishing it myself. Around that time my friend, Amanda, was working at Virgin Records, when it was a label in the city. She said, “If you need help engineering, you should talk to my friend Tony. He's a super nice guy, and I'm sure he'll help you out.” It turned out to be Tony Maserati. I don't think I even had a cell phone at the time, so I had to memorize his phone number – which I still have memorized, for various reasons. I called him, and we had a brief chat. He was very nice, and he said, “Why don't you come to the Hit Factory [Studio]? Come by whenever and we'll talk.” Being my overeager self, I said, “How's now?” He said, “Well, it's midnight.” I said, “Oh, is it too late?” [laughter] He told me he was going to be there all night, so I was like, “All right. I'll be there.” I'm sure I spent the last little crumbs of money that I had on a taxi to get all the way to the Hit Factory. I showed up, got to hang out with him, and tried not to be shocked that I was standing in the Hit Factory when two days ago I was convincing myself that I was going to fuck up my record by myself. He would let me hang out. If he wasn't going to use the studio, I could play some tracks for him, and he would give me notes on my mixes. If I knew what I know now, I probably would have been shyer. I vaguely knew most of the work Tony had done, but I didn't realize what a big deal it was that he was taking time out of mixing Black Eyed Peas to listen to my dinky little record. I remember his mix notes were not very technical or concerned if there was too much 300 Hz in the snare or anything like that. It was more about, “Yeah, there's just not a lot of impact here, and I feel like the emotion’s getting lost.” Or, “The vocals are telling a story, but the band is telling a different story.” He would speak in emotions, the way people listen to and think about music, and that was that.
That's amazing.
I think about how many things had to happen for that opportunity to unfold in that way, and that I went that night. Maybe if I had waited and gone the next day, you'd be sitting talking to somebody else entirely.
You did the key thing most people find difficult. You made the phone call, and then you showed up after speaking to him one time. You knew you had to get there.
Yeah. Never underestimate the naivete of a 20-year-old! The opportunities that I had, at least in the realm of DJ'ing, were socially based. I'd hang out somewhere long enough, and if I wasn't a complete idiot then I'd get booked at some gig. I'm not saying that's unserious work, but it's different than being in Studio 1 of Hit Factory. There have been myriad times that I've been in rooms like that since, where I've been stunned that I'm there, “What am I doing in this room?” Especially when it's, "What am I doing in this room? I'm low key in charge right now. I have everybody fooled.”
I have that feeling constantly.
Yeah. I think it keeps you alive. It keeps you honest, at least.
Somebody once said, “There's great power in not knowing what can't be done.”
That's a more articulate way of saying you can learn rules, but you learn limitations when you learn rules. I can't say that the record that I released [Cacophonics by The Ten Paces] was popular, by any stretch. But, for whatever reason, people liked it when I put it out, and they were like, “Hey, can you help us produce our record?” I'd say, “I'm not entirely sure I know what that means. But, as luck would have it, I'm not employed anymore and I've got oceans of time. If you want to figure it out with me for the better part of a year, let's do it.” In the early 2000s of New York, there were so many bands and so many people that just wanted to make music. I'm not going to say it was easy, but the hustle was rewarded well.
Right.
People knew me from DJ'ing, and I think a lot of times I was one of those engineers or producers that knew more about it than the artist did, so it seemed like I was good. I skated by a few times. But I kept doing that until I didn't have time for a real job anymore. I used to work directing television. That's what I went to NYU for, journalism. One day I had to make a decision between a gig of a band that was going to be big – spoiler alert, they didn't end up being big – or going to my shift. I went to the shift because I had to bring the network on the air, but I was thinking, “This is going to be my last shift. I'm out.” I quickly realized that working in television was not my bliss. The worst day I've had as a producer is still better than the best I ever had doing that.
And you were learning on the job?
All learning on the job. I worked for Tony casually. He was either at Chung King, Sony [Music Studios], or Hit Factory. I never worked at a studio as an intern or as a studio assistant. I think that bullseye on my back made me even more proactive than I normally am. I would bribe the intern and say, “If you give me the [SSL] G Series [mixing console] manual to take to Kinko’s, I'll buy you lunch tonight.” There'd be some esoteric thing that Tony would use, and I'd think, “I bet tomorrow he's going to ask me to do something on that.” We all know the annoyance of recalling a [Lexicon] PCM70 [reverb]. The thing sounds great, but it's so many menu pages. I would get the manual for that. I was always aware that there were people who had gotten the traditional education, and I wanted to find a way to stay useful. One of the ways I would do that is I would overhear engineers talking about things they had to do every day that they hated doing, and I would pretend that I loved doing that. Like editing drums, [Celemony] Melodyne-ing, or Auto-Tuning. I would say, “I love doing that. I’ve got a little rig, and I can sit in the closet and do it.” As long as no one watched how painfully slow I was, they were happy to not have to do it. So, there was definitely on-the-job training, but there was also a lot of bobbing and weaving of social norms of why I was allowed to be in the rooms, and why I was superseding hierarchies. When I put out the record of my own music and it was not a commercial success, I was relieved. I realized I didn't want to be an artist, and this job that I made up of a producer and helping other people make records was a revelation. I'm in everyone's band for a month or so, and I don't have to drive a van across the country or work out the guest list. Around the time that my record came out, TV On The Radio put out their first EP. I listened to it, and I realized these guys were doing what I was trying to do, but they're doing it so much more effortlessly and so much better than I ever could have. I don't need to be an artist. I want to listen to records like this, be inspired, and help other people. It felt freeing to be a producer. I say this to younger people all the time, "Remove 'aspiring' from the name producer and just start making things." I don't think there's a formal permitting process, “I anoint you producer.”
[laughs]
I remember this formative and prescient moment in my career where I realized this is something that I want to be doing. We were at Chung King’s Blue Room. It had a big SSL [console] in it, and Tony was mixing. I think it was Black Eyed Peas, and it might have been “Where is the Love.” I'm not sure, but it was going to be a big song. Tony was there and sort of paying attention and not. I was thinking, “Man, when does he actually start mixing? This is crazy.” Then he got a message from will[.i.am] that he was going to be there in about 45 minutes, and Tony was like, “Oh, shit. I’ve got to go do something.” I watched this guy take something and make it magical. I saw him not thinking in ways that I hadn't seen other engineers do before. He was just reacting to the music. It wasn't until years later I realized he was intentionally not “overcooking” and listening to it 10,000 times, because he knew will wasn't going to come for another seven hours. He wanted to have it be fresh, and he probably had an idea in his head of what he wanted it to be. He did his 45 minutes on it, and it sounded amazing. Then he came to me, “Hey, do you know how to edit the SMPTE? Because the bridge is going to change, but I have automation on there. You've got to edit the thing here so that the bridge is a little less long, but I need my automation to stay the same. You know how to do that?” I said, “Yeah, yeah.” He's like, “Cool. I'm going to dinner, but will.i.am will be here when I'm back.” I knew 60 percent of what he meant, but I had this idea that I'd either get fired or I'd do this for the rest of my life. It took me the full hour. At the height of me working on an [SSL] J Series every day, it should have been a 20 minute task, including checking it. It took me a whole hour. Today, we would just slice it in Pro Tools and not use that automation. Tony walked in as I'm checking it, and thankfully it sounded okay upon first listen. But he definitely knew something was up! He said, “Did you finish that just now?” I didn't know what to do, so I made up a reason why I was still listening, and he was like, “All right. Whatever.” He sits down, rewinds, listens to the spot, switches speakers, tilts his head, listens to the spot again. He doesn't say anything, and he doesn't acknowledge me. will.i.am walks in, and we're there until the sun comes up. After everyone leaves and I'm tidying up, he says to me, “What are you up to tomorrow?” I turned him and said, “I don't know. I'll be here.” End of story. No, “You saved the day! Great job, Chris! Hey, will, did you know that Chris did this thing that was really cool with the…” No. The reward was that I got to come there again and learn some other crazy shit. It was great. If it went south, Tony would have fixed it in ten minutes, but there would have been some consequence or domino effect that would have made the session not go so great. I remember that feeling, and I remember thinking that no one who listens to the song is ever going to know. I liked that. Maybe that means I prefer being behind the scenes. I could have flown on a cloud home that night for all I remember, but I remember that feeling very distinctly. I don't remember the train ride home. I don't remember how tired I was. All I remember is that really good feeling. I have no idea if Tony remembers that story!
What inspired you to bet on yourself like that?
Both of my parents are autodidacts, for sure. My dad built my parents’ house and started a construction company. He wasn't a union carpenter or anything; he just learned how to build and figured it out. My mom came here from Puerto Rico when she was quite young, taught herself English, and then was valedictorian of her class in high school That's what I came up under, as well as the general ethos of, “You can figure this out.” There's a degree of mythology to everything when you tell stories that are 20 years old – but that the 20-year-old version of me probably wanted to go with the flow of the energy in the room and keep up. I wasn't completely reckless; I was prepared. I was sitting on the couch, watching Tony do this thing – which, at the time, seemed like watching Superman lift a 50-ton boulder – and it made me think I could lift up the back of a Hyundai! I was watching a thing that I barely understood at the time, but I could tell how good the music was sounding and how the song was coming together, and it was demonstrating how musical mixing really is. He made this this experience that I'd seen in the faces of people that I've DJ'd for, and in the faces of my parents dancing in the kitchen playing Motown records. I thought, “He did all that. I'm not going to drop the ball.” What a bummer it would be for him to do all this and then the assistant says, “I don't know how to do that.” So, I just figured it out. I was commuting on the subway, and I don't remember a trip where I didn't have the SSL Little Green Book or manual in my hand. I was aware that the other people that I was working around had gone to school or had another leg up, and I had to figure it out. I was nervous, but I was smart enough to save a new mix pass and a snapshot on the desk so I could backtrack if I messed up. I was pretty pragmatic about it. It took me way longer than it should have, but it worked out.
