Making Records: The Scenes Behind the Music Read Online Free PDF Page A

words carefully. “I thought it was fine. But something’s missing. I think there’s a better one in you.”
    I wasn’t lying. I knew that if Barbra dug a bit deeper, she could really show the character’s reach for strength. “The set’s still there for tomorrow morning’s pickup and cutaway shots,” I offered.
    As I expected, Barbra disagreed.
    “Are you out of your mind?” she asked. “The take worked—we’re done.” I couldn’t argue—the take had worked. But seven minutes is a long stretch for any performer, and I didn’t want to forego our last chance at getting a truly gut-wrenching performance.
    Barbra and I knew each other well, and on some level I knew she must have understood what I meant. Although I didn’t belabor the point, I implored her to think about redoing the scene.
    Sure enough, a little while later there was a knock at my door. A production assistant had come with a message from Ms. Streisand. “You have an eight o’clock call on the theater set—we’re shooting the ending again.” I smiled. Barbra just couldn’t ignore the possibility that she could do it better.
    And she did.
    The next morning’s performance had the gutsy confidence that Barbra is known for; the scene delivers everything one desires of the ultimate moment in a dramatic film.
    What gives a producer the freedom to trust him- or herself, and to convince an artist like Frank Sinatra or Barbra Streisand that they should trust him too?
    There are many qualities and skills that successful producers share: musical, technical, and performing experience; a knack forworking with people; diplomacy; and above all, a passion for music and the recording arts.
    Although it sounds cliché, there’s no substitute for experience.
    When I began my career in the studio, I listened and watched more than I talked. My training came from engineers such as Bill Putnam and Bill Schwartau, and producers such as John Hammond, Jerry Wexler, Tom Dowd, Ahmet Ertegun, and Milt Okun. As mentors, they taught me to engineer and produce the same way that they’d learned—by doing.
    The men who influenced me were masters of their craft. Their work ethic, attention to detail, and high standards affected me deeply. What I saw in them became the blueprint for the way I work.
    While I became familiar with the ins and outs of recording, the most valuable lessons I learned as an apprentice related to the social aspects of engineering and producing: respecting an artist’s opinion, making suggestions and disagreeing in a tactful way, and resolving emotional and technical crises in the studio swiftly and effectively.
    Whether dealing with an artist or a business associate, conscientiously tending to the personal details goes a long way toward engendering trust. A case in point was my professional relationship with the late Morris Levy, the rough-around-the-edges owner of Roulette Records.
    It was the early 1960s, and my studio (A&R Recording) was fairly new and scraping to make ends meet. Roulette, a small label that made explosive rock-and-roll and jazz records, was one of our clients. I particularly loved the Count Basie and Sarah Vaughan sessions I engineered for them.
    The gag around town was that Morris Levy never paid list price for anything, nor did he pay on time. One afternoon my business partners called me in. “Hey—we’ve got to collect from Roulette. Go over to Morris’s office and ask for a check.” With all of my youthfulinnocence I strolled into Morris’s office, sat down, and politely explained to him that A&R really needed the twelve thousand bucks that Roulette owed us so we could pay our bills.
    Morris was affable and relaxed; we conversed and had a good laugh about the business. Then, Morris called for his secretary. “Bring me the A&R invoice and the checkbook,” he asked. He glanced at the invoice, wrote the check, and said, “You do good work—thanks.”
    On my way back to the studio I unfolded the check, and to my