The Tolerance Wars - 24
master of the dark arts
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begin at the beginning—Chapter 1
The Tolerance Wars
24.
master of the dark arts
“You know what you’re doing.” Tony passed me another twist tie.
“I most certainly do not.” I was flat on my back underneath the mixer, a souped-up affair that had started out life in the glory days of radio broadcasting. It’d been a little something that a few of us had managed to locate and pool our not-large resources to buy, Keeping it out of the hands of technology historians and collectors. Now whoever needed it used it. With all the modifications we’d made it was pretty much useless as a period piece anyway. There wasn’t an input that hadn’t been messed with in some significant way by one or another of us. 24 places to plug into the board. And now every one of those inputs sounded slightly different. Which was the beauty of having several owners—every one of whom had strong opinions about what good audio sounded like. It was like having a whole series of paint brushes. As long as you knew what you were doing, you’d be fine.
Tony and I were having a gentle disagreement over exactly that point.
“If I knew what I was doing, I wouldn’t be labelling each and every one of these plugs so that I can tell exactly both where it comes from and where it goes to. I’d just know all that. Clear knowledge. Fully within me.” I shook my head, even though i was pretty sure she couldn’t see from where she sat. “Instead I have vague knowledge. Mostly within those manuals sitting over there. And if it can’t be found in those hallowed pages, I have three phone numbers. Of people who actually do know what they’re doing. I’m just a hack.”
“You honestly think that?”
“I’ve worked with geniuses. And that ain’t me.” Done with clicking the last input cable into the board, I sat up to finish making my point. And of course I miscalculated, solidly banging my head on the underside of the board. Which was a far more eloquent way to complete my thought than any words I might’ve used. I let the muffled groan carry the point.
Setups were always like that for me.
We’d already gone through the part where we pull the wagon up to whatever space we’ve decided to turn into a recording ‘studio’, unload a bunch of seemingly random gear, and make a massive pile of apparently unrelated technologies in the middle of the floor.
Then that’d be the moment where I look at the pile of odd cases and cables and lord knows what else, and think to myself, “this is going to make a studio?”
No, setup days were never my favourite.
But we were almost there.
I figured we were about fifteen minutes away from being able to make some kind of noise and see whether we could both record it and play it back. The real test of any setup.
Which frankly wasn’t too bad. It’d taken just a little over four hours to figure out how to make this ‘light-industrial’ space work as a functioning studio. And to make it happen. Mostly.
If the tests went well, and if all the audio showed up only in the places I expected it to, based on how I’d wired it, we’d be able to call this half-day ‘useful’. At which point we’d begin the process of hooking up microphones and cables for everything from drums to singers. And all the amps in between. Which meant we were about an hour away from needing a drummer to come and setup their kit so they could start hitting things. And I could begin the process of taking what always started off sounding like a particularly nasty construction site and turning it into something when we played back the recording resembled the sound of actual drums.
Or we could just go with the construction vibe. But no one ever took me up on that. I think they thought I was kidding.
After a respectful pause to let me recover my dignity from the head bump, which hadn’t hurt but definitely made my eyes water, Tony continued the conversation. “So you think this is all about the wires. And the magic boxes?”
“Well… no. But if the wires and magic boxes aren’t setup properly, no amount of my soulful hand-waving is gonna get the signal where it needs to go.”
“Setup isn’t your favourite part of all this, is it?”
“My favourite part of all this is when we’ve packed it all up and we’re at home listening to the finished mix later and I’m thinking it all sounds pretty good. For a science project.”
And so it went.
Unlike most singers I knew, Tony actually enjoyed giving me a hand with the technical side of putting the gear together. Said it helped her feel grounded in the reality of it all. Frankly, we’d done this together enough times she could probably do most of the setup herself. With a lot less complaining. But she was kind enough to let me bumble through my process. such as it was.
“I thought your favourite part was playing the tunes.”
I dropped the argument and aimed a smile in my friend’s direction. “Sister, my favourite part is when I realize we’ve put something together that you can actually use. So I point you towards the mic and whenever you’re ready I press record. Then all the gear disappears. And it’s just us. And the music that brought us here. All the collected possibilities in that moment.” I probably twinkled at the thought without even trying. “Glorious.”
“It’ll never be as brilliant as everything that’s possible.” She was smiling back at me. In no small part because we both knew she was using my personal style of unassailable logic to make a point of her own. “Even if it is me we’re talking about.”
“If it’s you, it’ll be brilliant. Usually in ways that hadn’t even occurred to me. Being myself merely a lesser mortal.”
She shook her head, even though the smile continued. Then she said it again. Which suggested it was gonna end up somewhere in a track this session. “You honestly believe that?”
No need to dignify something so obvious with an answer. Instead I looked around at what we’d put together. Actually, it wasn’t bad. ‘Light industrial’ meant ‘used to be a factory of some kind’ and ‘between renters’. Which meant we had both space and time to stretch out for a little while. Concrete floor. Brick outside walls. Which marked it as older than some places I’d worked in. Older roof meant there’d be significant noise if it rained. But we’d deal with that if it happened. Inside the front door was a walled-in and windowed-to-the-shop-floor office, big enough to qualify as ‘administration’, gave us a separate space to setup the mixer and speakers and computer that would do the actual recording. It didn’t sound bad in there once we threw some blankets over a few extra mic stands to cut the foursquare tingtang bouncing around the bare walls. Once that space was truly all setup and working our next job would be to run long mic cables from our ‘control room’, through the office door and out onto the shop floor. One line for every drum in the kit. Josie was Tony’s drummer of choice for this session. Which meant two toms on a rack, and two on the floor. Kick drum, hi-hat and one mic line each for both top and bottom of the snare. Two more lines for an overhead pair of mics to get a stereo image of the whole drumkit. I’d already done the math. But counted cables again. Yeah, we got this. Even with losing the mic stands to hang the sound-conditioning.
And so it went. Sounds showed up in all the right places. Which meant I didn’t have to call anyone and wave them off. Which was good because the closest payphone was a ten minute walk up the road to the booth by the diner. And I only had one quarter. So they’d better be in. Drummer showed up right on time—both when we’d suggested and at the very moment Tony and I had just finished wiring up the last of the drum mics. Then glory be we’d got the drums sounding like the real thing on the speakers instead of a whole bunch of front end loaders and graders gathering with aggressive concern around a wounded member of their herd only with more groove which Josie wasn’t wrong it pretty much was when we started, just as the bass player and guitar god arrived.
This was starting to show signs of just maybe working.
We got it so the bass amp was making beautiful noises without being all over everything, mostly by moving it over to the far end of the building and building a makeshift structure around it. Waits had an instrument cable long enough he could walk over to his rig if he wanted to get the real thing while he was playing instead of the sound we were sending him in the headphones. “Best of both worlds,” he said, “I’m happy.” That was easy.
I turned away from that pile of goodness. And saw McShane. And his amp. “Hi. It’s me.” I think it was the guitar player who said it. Though by this point I wasn’t sure. May have been the amp.
“You need to be turned up loud.”
“Tubes gotta sing.” Definitely the guitar player.
There wasn’t any more available floor space. Not without putting my man too close to my own amp, which would be churning out rhythmic loveliness over by the far wall. Not too close to the singer, but not so far away she couldn’t get a sense of it if she needed to. Where was I gonna put his amp? And why hadn’t I thought of that before now? Yeah, not a genius.
“You got your car here?”
“Used it to bring the amps. It’s out front.”
“Can you pull it into the loading bay out the back at the far end?”
He looked puzzled, but, “Sure.” And went to make it happen.
“Tony, I think we’ve got a couple more long electrical extensions in the pile. Can you open up the loading bay door, then find a working plug? Once buddy’s parked inside, close the big door, then run the cable to the car. I’ll bring the amp. While i’m getting that setup in his backseat,” I looked around. got it, “can you bring that mic and stand we ended up not using for my rig? And one of that pair of superlong mic cables.”
“The ones you hate having to coil up again?”
“Hate’s a strong word. But yeah.” I lifted McShane’s amp onto the dolly we’d found earlier and started wheeling in the general direction of the loading bay. Generally. Okay, the wheels weren’t perfect. Was still better than hauling it the length of the building. “We’re gonna make a sound booth.”
Tony was grinning. “You’ve done this before.”
“Nope. Hope it works.”
And so it went.
By suppertime we’d got everybody sounding good in the recordings. And headphones for all. Each with their own mix. Because I’d brought along an extra mixer with a bunch of mixable outputs. Because you being able to hear exactly what you need and not what the drummer needs is how you keep musicians happy. So yeah, a separate line from every input to the monitor mixer. Science project.
Eventually we got there. All head down and grooving. From where I was standing and playing, in the big space close-ish to my amp by the far wall, I looked over at Josie. She was zoned in on the big fat notes of deliciousness that Waits was putting down. The man himself had his own domain half-way between the drums and all the scaffolding and bits of blanket we’d turned into a minor edifice around his bass rig. Which gave him pretty much a full stage’s worth of empty to prowl around in while looking for the perfect combination of note and groove. Space he was in that moment using by standing right at the drumside edge, perfectly still aside from a now and then dip of the slightest when one particular opening in the grooveage came along. And a fine grooveage it was. Yeah, he was dialled-in. Which meant McShane had something to work with as he wandered the whole space with his own superlong guitar cable and god’s own headphone mix, now serious now smiling, laying down possible tones and shaping riffs that might turn into something perfect for just what was happening right now. The forever here and now that’s the lead guitar player’s world. Tony had been singin’ it. And working lines. Though she’d been standing at her mic just listening for a minute now.
Actually, no. I looked over at Tony. She was looking at me. And clearly had been for some time. Kinda half-smile. Also clearly for some time. Yeah, I guess we got there. Felt good.
Though not overly loud. So while we were still playing I didn’t have to get too close for her to be able to hear me say, “You been watchin’ me. Watch everybody.”
And I didn’t have to work hard to hear her, “Who I learned it from.” Though I coulda used maybe a little less eyebrow. She once asked me what I was seeing, when we’re in mid-gallop and I suddenly decide to headsup. What do I catch that lets me know here’s where we’re at? And yeah maybe here’s where we can go. Though sometimes right here’s just fine. Don’t forget that. But what do I see? I couldn’t really tell her. Mostly I think I’m just confirming what I’m hearing around me. And really that’s just lining up with what my bones are feeling. Around me. But then it all gets weird so I go back to it being just tunes. And mostly I’m just looking up to remind myself that we got this.
Yeah we do.
“We got this.” Was Tony.
I waved my producer’s arm, with which I inevitably found myself specially equipped for the duration of a project. I was always surprised when it showed up the first time in a session. Usually meant we were working. Which was apparently now. We stopped. Actually, landed a random ending perfectly. And looked at one another.
Waits was the first to ask. “You wanna roll on some o’ that?”
McShane nodded, “I could.”
I checked in with Tony.
Who was checking in with me. “When was the last time you ate?”
“I just got here.”
“You’ve been at this since running gear down to the wagon first thing this morning.” I could tell she wasn’t gonna let up. I’d do the same for her. Probably later in the week. “When was the last time you ate?”
“What day is it?”
“Wrong answer.”
I thought about it. Then realized if I had to think about it she was probably right. “Break?”
“You guys hungry?” Waits again.
McShane nodded. “I could eat.”
I looked over at Josie. Apparently also could. I started on the options, “The diner’s closed, breakfast and lunch only.”
Waits again, “I took the liberty…”
I heard the main door open. Note to self remember to lock the front door while we’re in session. Waits was taking off his bass and putting it on the instrument stand he’d wisely brought with him. McShane called that a cue and did the same. I checked in with Tony. Who gave me an impressively subtle dunno but I’m going with it made out of not much shoulder and just a hint of chin.
Successfully picking a path through the fully cabled and dimly lit office doorway. Blonde, not tall, multiple bags. “Turns out they deliver.” Archer. She ran it by Waits, “How’s my timing?” Who was over and helping before I could get out from under my own guitar. “I didn’t know if you were recording.” Note to self good thing the door wasn’t locked and we’d decided to roll for a while.
“Yeah, we’re usually way louder than that.” Josie. Who’d come over from behind the drums to grab a hug and help with a bag. “What you got?”
Archer tossed keys to Waits with her now free hand. “You said when to pick up. They were bagging it when I walked in.”
“Lucky Break?” McShane called it. Chinese food downtown. Wasn’t what it was named originally. But after a whole series of good things happening over their hot and sour soup, a bunch of us had taken to calling it that. The family liked it so much they made it official. And wouldn’t let us pay for soup. Happily their dumplings were also wonderful.
Waits took another bag. “You said we’d probably be happy with first sounds around now.” I didn’t remember saying that, though it was the kind of thing I say when I have no idea when something’s gonna happen. “I figured we should have at least one decent meal while we’re doin’ this. May as well be today.” Man wasn’t wrong. “Did I see a table over there somewhere?”
“Shouldn’t you guys be working?” Sparechange. Who I got to lock the door behind him. We weren’t expecting anybody else. I checked. Note to self. “I heard you might be takin’ a break about now.” Apparently I was the only one who didn’t know the schedule. Reminded me I should check in. See what we’re up to. Which I guess Tony had just done. And Waits delivered. By Archer. Yeah, team sport. I’ll play.
“Good idea.” Tony grabbed a plate and went for the tofu in black bean sauce. I noticed. I did the math and hoped there was a second order. “Our friend still had his producer hat on.” She offered me the tofu. There was plenty left. I noticed. “He plays different.” I forked a piece and passed it on to Archer. “Nowhere near as much fun.”
“Not a producer’s job to be fun.” I thought about it. “Well, not always.” And went for the dumplings while there were still any left. “Mostly I figure my job is to not be producer.” Josie beat me to them. But left three. I took one. “Then people think I’m in charge. No way.” And another. Rank has its privileges. I motioned sparechange over. He’d been hanging back. I made sure he knew he was welcome, there was plenty enough. Well except maybe dumplings. Which Waits was uncovering another serving of. Yeah this was gonna be a full break.
Buddy took a plate. Two dumplings. Two pieces of tofu. I noticed. Put ‘em on a bed of plain white rice and soy sauce that had magically appeared underneath. Clearly done this before. “Don’t I remember you sayin’ producer’s just one of the musicians?”
I’d just taken a bite, couldn’t talk. Waits played it. “Depends on the producer.” He was going in heavy for the mixed vegetables, with a side of thin noodles and ginger. “Figure y’only need a boss when nothin’s gettin’ done.” Which wasn’t how I woulda put it. But I was in no position to argue. For all the reasons. And no way I was ever gonna be in charge of this bunch. I told ‘em so often enough.
“So you wear different hats?” Archer was managing just fine herself, she’d become a fan of this particular kitchen from the first time we’d introduced her. Though she did carry her own chopsticks. So she had prior. “How does that work?”
It was meant for me, but McShane took it. “Different gigs. Different hats.” Yup. The distance between two notes.
“So when you’re plugging in all the gear?”
Tony hit first, “Producer’s hat.”
“And when you’re playing guitar in the middle of a recording?”
“Guitar player’s hat.” Josie looked at me, “I can always tell the difference. Producer’s more work.” Then at Archer, “Player’s more fun.”
“And when you’re on a break?”
I knew this one, so I took it myself. “Depends on whether we got problems to solve. Or grooves to stay in.” Though that meant giving up on the last of the tofu. I noticed.
“And where are you at right now?”
I checked in with Tony. “Don’t look at me,” she said, “I’m just the magician’s assistant.”
“Magician?” Yeah, wasn’t sure I was comfortable with that.
“Master of the dark arts, man.” Even sparechange was playing it now. We needed a change of topic. “You plug in all those boxes and wires. Magic happens.”
I was having none of it. Much like the chicken if I didn’t move quicker. “I don’t bring the magic. No way. That’s the players. “ Guess I was hungry. Maybe a little grumpy. “The magic’s in the space between them.” Which is the kind of thing I sometimes say without thinking that can make a whole room go quiet.
Didn’t work.
Though happily the conversation drifted into more useful places. Buddy’d already let us know that the house was supporting the project. To a number slightly larger than the one we’d talked about. Which was how we were able to afford this space. And take this time—we weren’t going to be gigging out while we were recording. Different headspace. But rent doesn’t wait. So they kicked in a little extra to help us keep things ticking over while we put down the tracks. Wasn’t much. But not having to scrounge for a month felt good.
But also, “We’ve had eyes on the lady’s hat.”
The lady’s chopsticks paused. “You’ve seen it?”
Buddy shook his head, “Not me. But confirmed.” So not just a theory any more. This was news since our last meetup, The one with the whacking. His people figured they couldn’t do anything about it. Yet. But it was a start. Location is everything.
The last of the meal gone, nothing left over, nobody left hungry, perfect order, it was time to decide on the rest of the evening. Turns out Tony had a plan. “I think we work for a while. Stretch it out and groove down. Get ourselves into a place where we know it’s all working. Maybe as much as a couple of hours. Then we take the rest of the night off. Tomorrow we come in fresh and start on the long haul.” I love it when somebody else is in charge. Especially when they’re right.
Buddy said thanks for the bite and he was gonna book. Presumably he’d seen enough to give his people a sense of how it was going. Archer was hovering. I figured she knew she’d be welcome to stay. I still checked in with Tony. Who gave me her you are stupid for asking look. Which melted into, “You’re welcome to stick around.” Which made the lady smile. So we ran tunes. For a couple of hours. Stopping now and then to change levels. Or laugh over what we’d just done.
It was good people. Working on a good thing. Together. At some point the producer even became just another player.
And I found myself thinking that it was amazing we could even do this.
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