by Ramone, Phil
With Jim Koulouvaris, a friend, and Burt Bacharach Phil Ramone Collection
A&R Studio A1, 799 Seventh Avenue, NYC Phil Ramone Collection
TRACK 11
It Was a Very Good Year
Nineteen sixty-three marked a turning point for A&R Recording, and for me.
The first milestone came in March, when Creed Taylor—a producer at Norman Granz’s Verve Records—came in to make Getz/Gilberto, an album featuring tenor saxophonist Stan Getz, guitarist João Gilberto, and pianist Antonio Carlos Jobim.
The songs were all arranged in the bossa nova style: a sexy combination of Brazilian and jazz rhythms popularized by Gilberto and Jobim in Brazil a few years earlier.
Bossa’s soft, exotic beat was made for intimate dancing, and it had become extremely popular in America. Jazz Samba, a previous Stan Getz album, had hit number one on the jazz charts the year before, and because of it Creed decided to pair him with the two Brazilian heavyweights.
I didn’t know at the time, but I was in on the beginning of a new craze.
Creed definitely knew—his previous bossa nova records had sold well and gotten plenty of airplay. There was an indescribable feeling in the room when we made Getz/Gilberto—a quiet energy that put everyone in a happy mood.
The biggest surprise was how the most famous version of “The Girl from Ipanema”—sung by João’s wife, Astrud Gilberto—came to be performed and recorded, and how quickly it caught on. Although Astrud rarely discusses her work, she recently shared the story of “The Girl from Ipanema” as it unfolded at A&R:
“I came to the US with João, as he had a commitment to record the Getz/Gilberto album,” she explained. “One day, a few hours prior to Stan Getz coming to our New York hotel for a scheduled rehearsal with João, he [João] told me with an air of mystery in his voice, ‘Today there will be a surprise for you.’ I begged him to tell me what it was, but he adamantly refused.
“Later, as they were in the midst of going over the song ‘The Girl from Ipanema,’ João casually asked me to join in to sing a chorus in English after he sang the first chorus in Portuguese. So, I did just that. When we were finished performing the song, João turned to Stan, and said (in ‘Tarzan’ English), ‘Tomorrow Astrud sing on record—what do you think?’
“Stan was very receptive—in fact very enthusiastic. He said it was a great idea. The rest, of course, as one would say, is history. I was a bit nervous; [it was my] first time in a recording studio. But I felt reassured by the presence of my husband, João, and of Jobim, who at the time was a supportive friend. I’ll never forget that while we were listening to the song in the studio’s control room, Stan said to me—with a very dramatic expression—‘This song is going to make you a star,’” Astrud concluded.
As I recall, Norman Gimbel walked into the studio at about ten o’clock that night with the lyrics. Creed looked them over and said, “Jeez, it would be nice to get this song to Sarah Vaughan.”
João intimated that Astrud might sing the song, which we could record as a demo for Sarah. I didn’t even know that Astrud could sing; all she did was quietly sit in the corner of the studio while her husband and his cohorts recorded their album.
Astrud was sweet, and her version of “The Girl from Ipanema” turned out to be the most charming demo I’d ever heard. Others were captivated by Astrud’s understated interpretation too. Why wouldn’t they be? It was beguiling: sexy and coy, yet innocent at the same time.
I cut a disc and sent Astrud’s “The Girl from Ipanema” to Quincy Jones, and was later surprised to learn that Sarah Vaughan had declined to record the song. But I was delighted to learn that Verve had decided to put Astrud’s version on the back of a Stan Getz single—“Blowin’ in the Wind”—which he had recorded with a large orchestra.
In those days, 45 singles had designated A and B sides.
The A side was reserved for the song the label believed would be the hit, while the B side contained a filler tune.
Astrud’s recording may have remained an obscurity if not for a disc jockey at a small radio station in Columbus, Ohio, who turned the single over and began playing the B side on the air.
Within weeks, stations across the country were playing it too, and “The Girl from Ipanema” reached number 5. It also became the defining moment for Brazilian music—in its native country, and in America. The Getz/Gilberto album—which had been relegated to the vault after the onslaught of the Beatles—reached number 2 and stayed on the charts for two years.
I’ve been given a lot of credit for my work on Getz/Gilberto, but the truth is that it was pure magic because of the players and how they sounded in the room at 112 West Forty-eighth Street. I’m appreciative that Creed trusted me to record it, and especially proud that the album went gold and earned me my first Grammy Award for Best Engineered Recording, Non-Classical, in 1964.
The more I engineered and watched producers I’d come to respect, the more I yearned to move into the producer’s chair. The producer had more control over the aesthetics of a recording, and I felt I could use my skills as both a musician and engineer to make better records.
Creed Taylor deserves my special thanks, for he was one of the first people to suggest I step out of my role as engineer and move into the studio.
Creed is a quiet soul, and I think he was uncomfortable telling someone, “I don’t like what’s being played.” When we worked together I became his interpreter, and he gave me tremendous leeway to evaluate and constructively criticize a performance from take to take, and to interact creatively with players like Jimmy Smith, Kai Winding, J. J. Johnson, and Wes Montgomery. That was a big responsibility for me and a risk for Creed, and I benefited immeasurably from it.
For example, one of our clients at A&R was Solid State Records, and they had a nifty marketing gimmick: Their albums were made using 100 percent transistorized equipment, and they were all recorded in our studio. As Solid State’s audio director, I had the plum assignment of recording and producing jazz artists like Thad Jones, Mel Lewis, Manny Albam, and Jimmy McGriff in the 1960s.
Another momentous occasion of 1963 was one Sunday morning in April when Quincy Jones showed up at A&R with Lesley Gore, a sweet sixteen-year-old from Tenafly, New Jersey.
Lesley had been studying with a vocal coach, and when some voice-and-piano demos she made came to the attention of Mercury Records president Irving Green, he was impressed enough to send them to Quincy. There was a swell of female pop singers and girl groups in the early sixties, and Lesley had the voice and moxie to rank with the best of them.
Although I didn’t record the original session, our association began with one of her first songs—“It’s My Party.” As Lesley recalls, she and Quincy cunningly trumped another producer named Phil to snag the hit:
“We recorded ‘It’s My Party’ on a Saturday at Bell Sound. That night, Quincy hosted a Mercury Records event at Carnegie Hall. He was standing outside of Carnegie when Phil Spector came up to him, bragging about a new record he was making with the Crystals. ‘Quincy, it’s the greatest song I’ve ever recorded in my life.’
“With a poker face, Quincy said ‘Oh, really? What’s the name of the song?’ Spector said, ‘ “It’s My Party.”’ Quincy, being a smart guy, realized that the music publisher who owned the song had double-dealt him. One of the partners had given Quincy and me an exclusive for the song, while the other partner gave Spector the same deal,” Lesley explains.
Late that night, Quincy called me at home. “Can you meet me at your studio first thing in the morning, Phil?” he asked. “I’ll be there at eight,” I promised.
While I readied the room, Quincy went to Bell Sound to retrieve the unmixed tape. When he came to A&R we mixed it, and then cut a hundred acetates. On Monday morning the acetates went out via airmail to the biggest radio stations across the country; we ended up scooping Phil Spector’s record, which wasn’t even finished yet!
I’m still bowled over by “It’s My Party.”
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nbsp; As soon as I heard the punchy arrangement and Lesley’s assertive take on the vocal, I knew that she and Q had hit on something extremely rare. She wasn’t even seventeen when she made that record! “It’s My Party”—a very adult song sung by an innocent child—shot to the top. Lesley Gore became a hot commodity, and she began recording all of her records at our studio. Everyone loved the cavernous echo and gorgeous string sound we got on her next hit, “You Don’t Own Me,” and that helped A&R become a hip place to record.
Producers would hear a record or commercial on the radio and say, “I want whoever made that record.” They wanted to duplicate the success of the records we were making and demanded to use the identical studio, musicians, equipment, and engineer.
A&R grew quickly—much faster than anyone expected. Soon, we had two studios at 112 West Forty-eighth Street (A and B), and a mix room. But we needed more. We became so busy that I told the business staff, “We’ve got to open this place twenty-four hours a day.”
We spent nearly all of our waking hours at the studio, which became our nesting place. If passion overtook us, the vocal booth sometimes served as the center of activity.
Sometimes the overnight stay was really necessary: On one of the rare occasions when I did go home to rest I overslept and missed a morning session. The extra sleep cost me $3,000 that I couldn’t afford.
One of the most important things I did when we opened A&R was to implement a strict training program for prospective recording engineers. I wanted to have reliable people who could step in and take over if necessary. Everyone who wanted to work in any serious capacity followed the same routine.
An intern’s first stop was the tape library, where he or she would work for two or three months. Recording tape was our most valuable asset, and it was imperative that everyone who worked with it knew how to flat-wind, label, and store it. While in the tape library, an assistant would also learn the ins and outs of documentation.
A&R’s track sheets were something I prided myself on.
We never attached labels to or wrote track information on the back of tape boxes: All of the data pertaining to the music recorded on a reel of tape (artist, date, master numbers, titles, and technical data) was scrupulously noted on our track sheets. The track sheets were prepared in triplicate, and when we sent a tape out, whoever received it would have a clear, accurate log with all of the recording’s pertinent information right inside the tape box.
Interns in the tape library were forever being peppered with questions.
“Where are the tapes for this project?”
“Are the track sheets in the box?”
“Can you read your notes?”
“Are the reels filed correctly so we can find them easily?”
Next came the production room, where you would learn to dub (copy) tapes and magnetic film.
Then came the mastering room, where an assistant learned how to cut the discs that went to production. Cutting masters gave some guys conniptions! I loved watching interns try to cut a disc for the first time; they’d usually bury the diamond needle in the acetate. With practice, an apprentice would learn what a burnish on the stylus was and how to make it work to their advantage, how to adjust the angle at which they were cutting, and how deeply to cut the groove.
If an intern continued to show aptitude, they would be moved up to second or third assistant engineer. Being a second or third assistant was the proving ground: It gave one the opportunity to demonstrate their skills—and their potential—to senior engineers like Don Frey, Bill Schwartau, and me.
Original A&R track sheet & master tape reel for The Stranger, 1977 Phil Ramone Collection
Eventually the day would come when another engineer or I would see that someone was ready to become a first assistant, and they’d get to work their first real date: a jingle, commercial, or weekend rock session, perhaps.
In a typical week, a first assistant could expect to work sixty or seventy hours. To most, the exhausting hours were mitigated by the thrill of being involved in the creation of many historic records—and the experience gained by working alongside the main engineer. Whether operating the tape machines, adjusting the cue mixes sent to the artist’s headphones, or mixing a record, every task performed by the first assistant offered a valuable lesson.
By the time an assistant came to work for a senior engineer at A&R, they knew their job thoroughly. Amongst the three or four big studios in New York in the 1960s, ’70s, and ’80s, A&R had the finest help—people who you could trust to invest the same time and care in a session as the primary engineer would.
Things kept rolling along at A&R until one day in 1968 when we received some disturbing news: Mr. Mogull was selling the building at 112 West Forty-eighth Street. As a stopgap measure, we found space in the Leeds Building at 322 West Forty-eighth Street. But we still needed more room.
There are times in your life when fate turns your way. Through a series of fortunate events, we learned that Columbia Records was closing their flagship studio at 799 Seventh Avenue, a place with an enviable pedigree.
The building at Fifty-second Street and Seventh Avenue was the site of CBS Radio’s first New York broadcast studio (opened in the 1930s), and when CBS formed the American Columbia Records in 1939, they began recording there.
Acoustically, nothing beats an A-frame, the architectural model that has graced churches for hundreds of years. To my delight, studio A1 at 799 Seventh Avenue was an A-frame.
The room’s dimensions were sixty-five feet by fifty-five feet with a forty-foot domed ceiling. The exterior of the dome was metal, which cut out almost all of the interference from radio signals. I liked the design of the ceiling, but it was too reflective for my taste. Inside the room, the ceilings were plaster, and we placed high-diffusion tiles—in a V pattern—on the ceiling to help cut down on the amount of reflection and natural reverb in the room. This gave the sound a warm ambience and the sweet, crystalline top end I was looking for.
A well-designed room produces a balanced blend of high (treble), middle (midrange), and low (bass) frequencies. Too much of any one frequency range can mar an otherwise terrific record. Treble and midrange tend to reflect off hard surfaces, while bass is absorbed by soft surfaces. If your room is overly bright, music recorded there will sound shrill. Too much midrange lends stridency (a nasal sound, like a voice coming through the telephone) to the recording. Excess bass booms, making the lower frequencies sound muddy and undefined.
To control the midrange and high frequencies and create spacious sound, Don Frey and I covered the walls with soft fiberglass and fabric. These “drapes” had two layers, but there was some space between them so the fabric side didn’t touch the fiberglass side. Because of this, the midrange would pass through the fabric and be absorbed by the fiberglass, while the high frequencies would bounce off and back into the room.
We also redesigned the bass response in the room by creating “bass traps” (fiberglass-covered battens that protruded eighteen inches from the wall) that would prevent unwanted bass frequencies from running along the wooden floor. Doing this reduced low-frequency muddiness, and gave our bottom end a clean, well-defined edge.
One of the first things we did to the smaller studios at 799 Seventh Avenue (and each of the studios at 322 West Forty-eighth Street) was put in a floor that was similar to the one in the studio at 112 West Forty-eighth Street. It was spring-loaded (it floated inside the shell), and was a mixture of vermiculite and cement.
But the existing floor in Studio A1 at 799 Seventh Avenue was oak—the first wood floor I ever worked with. The room had large acoustic panels that could be raised or lowered by chains, which helped diffuse the little bit of sound that was reflected off the floor.
I built a special platform for the drums (I isolated them, but kept it so that the drummer was visible to the other musicians), and came up with a technique that gave us a very pretty string sound.
We also built a large, suspended booth with sliding doors direc
tly across from the control room window. The booth’s frame was anchored to the steel I beams of the building; it was so strong it could bear the weight of a full rock group without collapsing.
The booth could be split in two by a divider, so we could put a soloist on one side and a vocal group on the other, or open the divider to accommodate a large group. The front doors were removable, and when a vocalist who preferred to hear more of the orchestra came in, we would take the doors off so he or she could be isolated yet still hear the musicians playing outside in the studio.
Having an area with separation was helpful on dates at which we recorded a solo singer and a vocal group together. Dionne Warwick’s sessions with Burt Bacharach and Hal David are an excellent example.
Dionne’s sister (Dee Dee) and their aunt (Cissy Houston) often provided backup vocals on her records, and to prepare for an evening session, Dee Dee and Cissy would rehearse with Dionne in the afternoon, with Burt and Hal.
Recording began at seven. Everything was recorded live with the orchestra in the room. I’d put Dionne on one side of the vocal booth, and Dee Dee and Cissy on the other, and it worked beautifully.
Since the studio was on the top floor of the building, we had seven floors of hard steel in the back stairwell. When Columbia Records owned the building they used the stairwell for echo. Microphones and speakers were placed on different landings; the sound that bounced off the hard surfaces was folded back into the mix. While that worked well for some recordings, I found that the stairwell yielded a far different sound than my EMT plates, and rarely used it.
The late David Smith and I were friends from the day he came to work in the maintenance department of A&R in 1973. David was a respected engineer and world-class microphone collector. Later, he worked as vice president of engineering at Sony Music Studios in New York.
David spent years working in Studio A1, and valued its acoustics more than anyone I know. Shortly before his untimely death, David described what he believed made the studio special: