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

that song. The hot guitar licks, lightning-fast drum fills, and unbridled energy I heard in the first take had passed, and we hadn’t captured it.
    When he heard what had happened, Slash was beside himself. Like us, he knew that we’d lost something elusive and magical.
    Moments like this are terrifying. There’s nothing more humbling than having to tell a musician that they’ve got to do a retake because you (or someone on your crew) was careless. In this case, I kicked myself for not being more explicit in my presession instructions; doing so would have reduced the tension and stress that those around me probably felt.
    Ideally the producer, engineer, and crew should keep stress at a minimum, and away from the performer. Everything we do should be invisible to them.
    Interrupting the flow of a session to say, “Excuse me—we’ve got to fix a microphone,” or, “Sorry, the board hiccupped” is like blocking the path of a marathon runner in the last quarter-mile of a race. There were many times during sessions when I’d go out into the studio—while the band was playing, and the recorders rolling—to adjust a guitar amp, or upright a mike stand that had fallen over.
    A bit of thoughtful, presession planning can go a long way toward avoiding embarrassment and give you the chance to recover from a sudden crisis. I learned the importance of preparation early on from two of the best teachers: Quincy Jones and Frank Sinatra.
    Quincy and I became close in the late 1950s. He had played trumpet in Lionel Hampton’s big band, written arrangements for Count Basie, and in the early 1960s became the director of artists and repertoire at Mercury Records—the first African American to hold such a position at a major label.
    In recent years, “Q” has earned a reputation as a musical thoroughbred: a musician, composer, arranger, and producer. He’s a splendid teacher who radiates warmth and spirituality that’s rare, and I gleaned much of what I know about friendship, treating an artist well, and recording a big band from watching Quincy work in the studio.
    In 1966, Quincy was arranging and conducting for Sinatra and the Count Basie band, and he invited me to see them perform at The Sands in Las Vegas. It was a classic event; everyone donned their best formal wear, but I had to fake it with a business suit ’cause the only tux I had was the one I shared with Quincy, and it was onstage with him.

    With Quincy Jones and songwriter Tony Renis, Milan, Italy, 1964 Phil Ramone Collection
    Basie’s orchestra opened the show and swung their asses off. After intermission, Sinatra’s rhythm section joined them on stage.Quincy kicked off the band, and a deep voice boomed from the PA system. “The Sands is proud to present a man and his music…the music of Count Basie and his great band—and the man is Frank Sinatra!”
    The epitome of cool, Frank swaggered onstage, picked up the mike, and began to sing. But the audience couldn’t hear him; his microphone was dead.
    When he realized it wasn’t working, Frank dropped the mike onto the floor and left the stage. There was a strange silence in the showroom. A few minutes later the introduction was repeated, and Sinatra made his second entrance. This time the microphone worked.
    Lesson number one, forever.
    That evening at the Sands showed me that it wasn’t enough to make sure that all of the microphones, recorders, and cables were working when I ran a session; I needed to have two vocal mikes, a backup recorder, and a technician on hand to instantly resolve any problems that came up. In my early years as an engineer I was so obsessed with having everything in order that I’d set up the night before and come in a few hours before a session to check and recheck the equipment. The last thing I ever want is for an artist to come to work and walk into chaos.
    Am I fussy? You bet.
    But I only demand of others what I demand of myself: dedication and attentiveness. I can laugh and