by Ramone, Phil
If at the end of the playbacks we all agreed on which lines contained the best performance, great. If we disagreed, Milt Okun would cast the deciding vote. If Milt weighed in and we were still at an impasse, Albert Grossman—the trio’s legendary manager—served as arbitrator, smoothing out any uncomfortable moments. It was during the “Which line should we use?” debates that we really heard from Mary.
With this hot-and-heavy pace, I developed a technique for creating composite takes—a practice that served me well. While I recorded all of Peter, Paul and Mary’s master takes on an eight-track machine, I also ran a two-track recorder for reference.
I could make some pretty fancy edits with a razor blade, but since the group’s phrasing was so tight, I’d make sample edits on the two-track before committing myself on the multitracks. As spliced up as they are, I doubt the casual listener would notice that those records aren’t the product of single takes. How could I go wrong when recording at 30 inches per second?
My experience with Peter, Paul and Mary proved invaluable when I began producing Chicago, another group with complex musical and personal dynamics.
I was asked to produce Chicago’s Hot Streets in 1978, after they ended their partnership with James “Jimmy” Guercio, who had produced their first eleven albums.
The invitation came because of my history with the group. Because I’d mixed several of their albums, I had worked at their home studio (Caribou Ranch) and I understood the inner workings of their “sound” and the politics of the band.
Hot Streets came at a bittersweet time.
Guercio, who had managed and produced Chicago since 1968, was a terrific producer who was also responsible for the sound of Blood, Sweat & Tears, the second, self-titled album by a band that included Randy Brecker and Canadian vocalist David Clayton-Thomas. That album’s two major hits—“Spinning Wheel” and “You’ve Made Me So Very Happy”—won Blood, Sweat & Tears (and Guercio) a Grammy in 1969 for Album of the Year.
The magic that Guercio spun with Chicago and Blood, Sweat & Tears helped spawn a pop subgenre that artfully married traces of rock, rhythm and blues, soul, and big-band jazz. Jimmy’s creative vision and business acumen were beyond compare; I had (and still have) the utmost respect for him as a friend and producer.
In addition to his creative talent, Guercio had a good business sense. He took the concept of the full-service recording studio to the limit in 1973, when he and the members of Chicago opened the Caribou Ranch Studio in Colorado. I worked there many times and it was unlike anything I’d ever dreamed of: a resort where we ate, slept, played, and recorded.
At five thousand acres, Caribou had been one of the largest private Arabian stud farms in the country, nestled nine thousand feet in the Rocky Mountains. The lodgings were plush, and the amenities par excellence.
The cabins included brass beds, leather furniture, fireplaces, hardwood floors, and high-end sound systems. Some suites had Steinway baby grand pianos, and there was a library with books, movies, and games. Then, there were horses and skimobiles. And food: A professional cooking staff was available to prepare and serve whatever snack or meal your entourage desired, twenty-four hours a day.
Caribou was the ideal place for a band to write and record, because it was all in one. You came, unpacked, and every need was tended to without leaving the property. The record companies were willing to foot the bill, and before long dozens of bands were seeking refuge at the ranch. Elton John even named one of his albums after the place.
I wasn’t privy to the conflict that caused the end of the Guercio-Chicago marriage, but I knew the details of another tragedy that was affecting the band: the death of guitarist Terry Kath, who had recently died in a senseless gun accident. I had known, worked with, and loved Terry too, and was equally devastated by his loss. As we began work on Hot Streets, everyone involved with Chicago was grieving.
Because of Terry’s death, Chicago was breaking in a new guitarist, a bright young player named Donnie Dacus. While no one could replace Terry, Donnie did a remarkable job of respecting the brotherly role that Terry had played in the band while learning to fill his musical place, too.
Upon talking about songs for Hot Streets, I discovered that the members of Chicago had come up with a fair plan: Each of the eight members would be given the opportunity to contribute a song for the album.
Fielding songs from eight individual members of a band—each of whom expects to have a song on their album—wasn’t easy. It wasn’t just about the writing: each member also had the right to add their own twist to the mixes of the songs they’d written, and a share in consensus approval over the mixes for every song on the album.
With a well-known group that is as successful as Chicago, there isn’t room for a B-minus song, so when I learned of the plan the question I posed was, “What are we going to do if a song that one of the members writes is not an A, A-minus, or B quality song?” We agreed that if there was any question about a song’s suitability, I would be the judge.
That responsibility put me in an unenviable position. Was I thrilled about having to tell the conga player that the song he wrote wasn’t good enough? Not exactly. It wasn’t the percussionist’s fault; he was Brazilian, and didn’t have full command of our language. But it was my job to put the music first, so I sat down with Peter Cetera and said, “Peter, our friend needs us to help him write a better song.”
In the control room with Jim Boyer (center) during a Chicago session, late 1970s Phil Ramone Collection
The interpersonal and intersectional dynamic between the members of Chicago was fascinating. They were like a family, and because we spent four to six weeks (or more) together rehearsing and recording an album, I became their “uncle.”
Traveling to a distant locale and settling in for a month or two to record an album helped add to the familial atmosphere. And when you traveled with Chicago, you traveled in style! Since they stopped using the Caribou Ranch studio when they split with Guercio, we were free to go wherever we wanted to record.
For the Hot Streets sessions we went to Miami’s Criteria Recording Studios. We rented two mansions (Robert Lamm, Peter Cetera, and I stayed at the tennis club; the horn section—Jimmy Pankow, Walt Parazaider, and Lee Loughnane—stayed in what I called the Palmetto Palace because of the mammoth Florida cockroaches that seemed to be everywhere).
When we traveled, we tried to build as many comforts of home into the equation as possible. For instance, we always had a chef to prepare our meals. It wasn’t about being extravagant: I knew that we would be working hard, but the temptation to play harder was sure to be there. It was better to have the places we stayed in stocked with everyone’s favorite foods, snacks, and beverages so that when the band came to work there was no need to waste time sending out for food or going out to party.
As one would expect from a large family, there were often differences of opinion among the members of Chicago—and not just about songs.
I mentioned that when we were on the road, the horn section stayed in separate quarters; the brass players did, in fact, function as an individual unit. They weren’t being uppity; they came to writing sessions and rehearsals, but they didn’t like being around when the rhythm section was laying down the basic tracks.
When you’ve got so many components going into a sound and you start working through a track, getting the rhythm, guitar, and vocal parts down is intense. There were times when recording became tedious, and to thrust the horn section into long sessions and laborious debates at a time in the process when they wouldn’t even be playing would have been counterproductive. It was better to have them arrive when everything was in place so that all they had to do was work their unique magic on the track.
Logistically, this didn’t pose a problem. We knew that the horns would be on 90 percent of the songs (they were, after all, the major component of Chicago’s sound), so we’d sketch out the rhythm parts knowing exactly what spaces we needed to leave for the brass. After the bass, gu
itar, drums, keyboards, and vocals were recorded they’d come to the studio and lay in the horn parts.
We made other accommodations, too.
Most of the band members didn’t like to record early in the day. Robert Lamm enjoyed rising with the sun to play tennis, and I often joined him. The others were content sleeping in.
Peter Cetera and I were happy to hit the studio at ten in the morning. Like many singers, Peter didn’t like anyone else around when he recorded his vocals (it can easily encourage criticism and tension), so he and I would spend hours working on his tracks before the late-afternoon sessions with the rest of the band.
With Chicago singer, songwriter, and keyboardist Robert Lamm Phil Ramone Collection
It’s my experience that when you work with groups—large or small—the collective personnel is “the artist.” One or two members may emerge as de facto leaders (as Robert Lamm and Peter Cetera did with Chicago), but relations become thorny when a producer shows favoritism—especially if each of the artists is a successful performer in his or her own right. In those instances I’m mindful of each person’s stature as an individual, yet aware that my charge is to bring them together as a group.
Paul Simon once came to me and said, “Artie, James Taylor, and I would like to do the Sam Cooke song ‘(What a) Wonderful World.’” The lineup was stellar, but with three distinctive artists such as Paul, Art, and James the budget could easily get out of hand, so I had to lay some ground rules.
I got them together and said, “Here’s the deal: You’ve all got equal rights. The three of you have to sing on the initial track, and then you can each have one day to fix your guitar part or your vocal. You’ll all have a say on the final mix, but when your ‘fix-it’ day is done, it’s done. The fourth and fifth days are mine.”
Cutting the record didn’t take nearly as long as it otherwise might have, because I’d made my expectation of the trio as a group clear from the start.
I had worked individually with Paul Simon, Art Garfunkel, and James Taylor before, which gave me valuable insight into their personalities and how they worked in the studio. But we still met prior to rehearsals.
Every record I make presents unique obstacles. Even if an artist and I have the routine down to a science, there’s still a lot of planning to do before the sessions get under way. While an established relationship makes things easier, I’ve got to treat everyone as a new artist, even if it’s just psychologically.
A & R Recording, New York City, early 1960s Phil Ramone Collection
TRACK 10
The Studio
There are two places in the world where I love to be, and one of them is the recording studio.
Next to the artist and the music, the studio is the most prominent star in the recording process. It’s the engineer’s and producer’s tool: a powerful instrument used to manipulate air, vibrations, and sound. The studio is where music and friendships are born.
My love affair with the recording arts began in the late 1950s, when I walked into J.A.C. Recording on West Fifty-eighth Street in New York to make a demonstration record.
Until that moment, I was tussling with some serious issues.
I wasn’t happy studying and playing classical music, and I ached to let my violin wander into the jazz and pop worlds I was flirting with on radio, stage, and television. I wasn’t even sure that I wanted to continue playing the violin at all. It was rather halfheartedly that I asked a friend (pianist, arranger, and composer Ralph Burns of the Woody Herman band) to score two songs for my first demo: “It Had To Be You,” and “Summertime.”
The hour or so I spent cutting the tunes helped answer my questions and changed the course of my life. I was mesmerized by the deftness with which J.A.C. owner Charlie Leighton recorded my session, and when I expressed an interest in the process of recording, he invited me to become a trainee. Charlie’s ramshackle apartment–turned–demo studio was the ideal place to start my career on the other side of the glass.
As an apprentice, I was expected to do everything: run tape recorders, hang microphones, balance the sound, and cut acetate discs. Leighton’s philosophy was that an engineer should understand the principle behind what they were doing before they did it. “The most expensive microphone in the world isn’t worth a damn if you don’t know where to put it, or why it needs to go there,” Charlie said. You needed to know the limitations of the final product before you put a microphone in front of an artist. How much bass could be cut into the grooves of a record? What would lend presence to a vocal?
One of the first things I learned at J.A.C. was the secret to cutting a good disc.
Cutting a disc at the original A&R Studio, circa 1961 Phil Ramone Collection
Condensing sound waves into the squiggly grooves of an acetate disc was an art unto itself. The width and depth of a groove was determined by the dynamics of the music. You had to be careful to make the record loud enough so it wouldn’t skip, but aggressive enough in terms of equalization and compression to give your demo an attention-getting sound.
The competition to make your demos stand out was unbelievable: Every songwriter and salesman wanted theirs to be louder, brighter, and hotter than the next guy’s. If you became known for making the kind of demo that had an edge, word spread and you were suddenly in demand.
What was it that helped set a demo apart?
Echo.
Without echo, recordings sound tight, lifeless, and dull.
Listen to the classic sides that Elvis Presley cut at Sun and RCA Victor in the mid-1950s: The reverb is what lends a haunting, glossy overtone to records such as “That’s Alright,” “Heartbreak Hotel,” “Blue Moon of Kentucky,” “All Shook Up,” and “My Baby Left Me.” Drenching a vocal or guitar part with echo was a fairly new trick at the time, and the lonesomeness imparted by the reverb helped sear Elvis’s ersatz R&B sound into the public consciousness.
Because few recording rooms had enough natural reverb, echo chambers made of cement or wood became acceptable substitutes.
To create the echo, speakers and microphones were placed inside the chamber. The music being performed in the studio (“dry,” i.e., untreated with echo) was routed to the speaker inside the chamber, and when it bounced off of the reflective surfaces it added a “halo” or “wetness” to the music. The microphone picked up that highly reverberant sound and sent it back to the mixing board, where the engineer could add as little or as much as needed to the dry mix coming from the studio.
The fraction of a second it took for the dry, untreated sound to loop from the board, into the chamber, and back again created a slight delay. The size of the chamber and the way the walls were treated affected the quality of the echo produced.
A studio’s echo became its signature, and I quickly learned that much of what you do in the studio is a mixture of echoes, reverbs, and slaps (a single, strong echo heard bouncing off a hard surface). The more imaginative you were with those effects, the more successful your studio became.
In the days before digital reverb and delay, we had to improvise for echo. Charlie Leighton didn’t have the room to install a real echo chamber, and I remember Bill Schwartau slathering a small room at J.A.C. with varnish for weeks. It was improvised, but the effect gave us a nice edge around the voice and piano.
A lot of my knowledge about recording came from listening to records, and one of my favorites at the time was a Columbia album called Delirium in Hi-Fi by Elsa Popping and her Pixieland Band. It’s still one of the greatest examples of how echo and other effects can be used creatively.
Elsa Popping wasn’t a real woman, or even a bandleader. The name was a pseudonym used by French composer André Popp for his phantasmagorical technical excursions: jolly, whimsical flights of fancy in which engineer Pierre Fatosme used multiple tape machines to record each instrumental and vocal part deliberately out of synch. This created a surreal pastiche of echo, speed, and slap effects.
Popp and Fatosme’s psychedelic sounds were years
ahead of the LSD movement, and I spent months analyzing Delirium in Hi-Fi trying to figure out exactly how they did it.
Every engineer dreams of opening a studio—a place they can call their own. In late 1958, Jack Arnold (a partner in J.A.C. Recording) got tired of me saying, “I would love to have a big recording studio,” and found a space for me in the Mogull Film Building at 112 West Forty-eighth Street.
I remember the elation I felt the first time I stepped into the forty-eight-by-thirty-eight-foot room that had once been a small insert stage used to shoot commercials. There was very little soundproofing, no air-conditioning, and a creaky old elevator. Despite its quirks, the place was charming and I thought Jack and I could make the place work.
We named the studio A&R Recording, for Arnold and Ramone. I asked a friend who was a calligrapher to design a logo that would be so over-the-top it would be unforgettable, and the florid script “A&R” she came up with became our visual calling card. Then we had the back wall of the studio painted with big clown-style triangular checks. If anyone spotted that wall on a jazz album cover, they would know the record had been made at A&R.
A few months after opening A&R we ran into problems.
With Jack Arnold, circa 1961 Phil Ramone Collection
Jack fell ill, and I was sure we were going to lose the place. There must have been something in God’s master plan; Art Ward, manager of the Honeydreamers, stepped in and helped keep things afloat. Art had the entrepreneurial skills and the requisite A in his name. Although we’d started A&R with no money, microphones, or recording equipment, we were optimistic. Bill Schwartau and Don Frey—two friends I’d met at J.A.C.—helped wire the studio and set everything up. If not for the generosity of all the kind souls who took an interest in its birth, this kid’s dream for A&R Recording would never have become a reality.