Tag Archives: Mudhoney

Jack Endino, recording engineer

Although I’ve spent a lot of hours listening to music recorded and mixed by Jack Endino, it didn’t occur to me until the last few years that the recording and mixing was a big part of what I was responding to in the music.

Casual fans will know of him as the guy the recorded Nirvana’s debut, Bleach, for $600 in 1988. Grunge heads will know him as the man at the desk for Green River’s Dry as a Bone, Soundgarden’s Screaming Life, Mudhoney’s Superfuzz Bigmuff, Afghan Whigs’ Up in It, Screaming Trees’ Buzz Factory, the first couple of Mark Lanegan solo records and innumerable Seattle indie records since. As is the case for his Midwestern counterpart Steve Albini, as fewer people have been paying attention, his record-making craft has got better and better.

The Jack Endino sound is not a product of the machinery employed. The Otari MX-5050 8-track analogue tape recorder that he used to record Bleach is in the EMP museum in Seattle, yet the man’s work is still readily identifiable. If I had to encapsulate his sound in a single word, it might be something like “unfussy”, but that would be doing him a disservice and wouldn’t really get to the heart of what I like about his sound and what I hear in it.

So here’s the longer version. I’ve been playing in bands since I was 13, which means I’ve been playing music with other musicians on stage and in rehearsal rooms and recording studios for twenty years. I know what it sounds like to stand a few feet away from a drummer giving the cymbals what for, or from a guitarist whose tone could strip paint off a wall. I’ve sat on a drum stool and given a snare drum an undeserved pounding, my ear maybe a foot and a half away from the drum head, and I’ve been in the presence of bass players seemingly in search of the mythical brown note. Endino’s recordings retain more of this sense memory for me of what this all sounds like than just about any other engineer’s, Albini included. His instruments sound like instruments, not instruments mediated by the tastes of the producer and the production fashions and orthodoxies of the era.

The internal balance of the drums, for example. Many times in recording and mixing, an engineer will dramatically alter the balance of the drum kit – that is, how loud each part of the drum kit is in relation to all the others when the drummer – to get a desired sonic picture. Typically, the snare drum will be emphasised, the close-miked snare jacked up, and various other points of collection gated and/or filtered to achieve the same end result (for example, gating the toms to reduce the amount of bleed from the hi-hat, making the snare seem louder in comparison). Endino’s work doesn’t sound like it’s been fussed over in this way. Not to say that he doesn’t use those techniques, but if he does, it’s not obvious, so the intent isn’t to foreground his own craft.

When you listen to Nirvana’s Bleach you’re hearing the same band-members-in-a-room approach you hear on Slippage’s Tectonica, released twenty years later and featuring Endino himself on drums and bass (along with Allison Maryatt on vocals and guitar and Skin Yard/Gruntruck veteran Scott McCullum on drums). Let’s look at an even more recent track: Storm, by Soundgarden. The track was recorded for, but not used on, a demo tape in 1986 (Cornell was still the group’s drummer). Endino unearthed the original tapes, and on a whim remixed it and sent it to the band. They liked it enough that they decided to get together with Endino and do a new version. Of course, any track with Matt Cameron drumming on it is automatically better than the same track with anyone else drumming on it, but it also gives us a nice demonstration of how little things have changed in Endinoland.

About three and half minutes in there’s a cool breakdown section where Cameron plays tom patterns, laying off the snare for maybe 20 seconds or so, then slowly bringing it back in for emphasis, then going totally hog wild over the full kit, snare, cymbals and all. The drums sound great. It’s not a spectacular sound, not as instantly ear-grabbing as the ones employed on Superunknown, but damn, it sounds like a drum kit, rather than an idealised version of one.

In the meantime, the bass is as rich and full as you’d hope (it’s kind of a 2-layer sound, with a clean-sounding low end and a grindier top that gives it a presence in the track – might be a trick of the ear though), and Kim Thayil’s guitars are frequently hard-panned, shrieking and screaming across the whole stereo image. Cornell’s voice, sometimes doubled in octaves, is subtly modulated but occasionally heavily, obviously delayed. The track’s a great example of how an Endino recording can combine an approach to drums that’s very straightforward and faithful to reality with time-domain effects on vocals and guitars and create a very natural-feeling and coherent whole.

jackendino
Jack Endino, in the studio

Songs, not recorded by Jack Endino

Underrated Drum Tracks I have Loved 2014, Part 3 – Lido Shuffle – Boz Scaggs

Session players will play on a lot of crap. It’s part of the job. You’re hired, you go in and play the songs to the best of your ability, you accumulate credits and you get more work. The quality of the material you play on is almost irrelevant. Unless you’re at the very top of the A list, you can’t afford to turn anyone down, and folks who are at the very top of the A list, well, they didn’t get there by turning down opportunities. If there’s a player on the session you’ve never hung with, or a producer who you’d like to connect with in future, who cares if this particular song is a no-hoper? This is a career, after all. You have to play the long game. If you want to understand the session player mentality, consider Matt Chamberlain, once the drummer in Edie Brickell’s New Bohemians, who was asked to do a tour with Pearl Jam in 1992, just when they were blowing up. The tour went well enough that he was offered the slot permanently (yeah, Pearl Jam weren’t Mudhoney; being a former New Bohemian didn’t disqualify you). Yet Chamberlain turned it down to play in the Saturday Night Live band. He was 25 years old. Call me an unreconstructed punk rocker if you will, but being in the SNL band should be no 25-year-old’s dream gig.

In any generation, only the most technically gifted players get to make that choice. Only the very few can make a living as a recording drummer, particularly since the advent of drum machines and drum programming software. Rock fans tend to lionise favourite players in favourite bands, but usually these guys would be the first to admit that they’re stylists, not technicians. If you want to know who the best drummers of this generation are, ask some record producers. Look at the credits for recent big-budget singer-songwriter albums: you’ll see people like Chamberlain, Joey Waronker and Jay Bellerose.

Once upon a time, you’d have seen Jeff Porcaro.

Porcaro’s credit list is a fascinating read. Reading down the list, you see him muscle his way to the very centre of the LA-based rock-soul interface in the mid-1970s when barely in his twenties by playing the hell out of some fiendish Steely Dan charts and grooving like a mother through Boz Scaggs’ Silk Degrees. His performance on Lido Shuffle is a favourite of mine. It’s an all-time-great drum track. It’s as tight as can be, yet it feels ridiculously good. There’s a half-hour instructional video of Porcaro’s on YouTube (and watching it gives you an insight into why he was so continuously employed; he put a lot of care into his bass drum patterns and his approach to both to choice of hi-hat pattern and employment of dynamics within that pattern is eye opening). He picks apart his Lido Shuffle groove for the benefit of dullards like me. On the hat he plays the first and last note of the triplet on each beat of the bar, while the second note of the triplet is played as a ghost on the snare. He plays the backbeats (two and four) on the snare. On the kick, he plays first and last note of the triplet on the first beat and the last note of triplet on the second beat, repeating that pattern for the third and fourth beats. It’s intricate, for sure, but it makes a lot of sense when he plays it. And his ability to jump in and out of it – to play his fills at the end of each verse, just before the line ‘One for the road’ – is really impressive. This guy, clearly, was a hell of a player. Yeah, he was a member of Toto. So what? He played on Bad Sneakers and Lido Shuffle.

Yet getting an overview of his career by reading his credit list is overall a dispiriting exercise. As you get further down the list into the late 1980s, the artists who employed him get ever more washed-up and irrelevant, further and further from anything you could defend artistically. I’m sure he got paid a shedload for playing on Michael Bolton’s Time, Love & Tenderness and Richard Marx’s Rush Street in the early 1990s, and sure, he was at an age where Pearl Jam wouldn’t have been calling him up to occupy the drum stool anyway, but there were genuine artists working in the major label system too, and to actively choose Bolton and Marx seems such a waste, given how abruptly his life would end in 1992, when he had an allergic reaction to pesticides he’d used in his garden.

porcaro
Mr Porcaro

If you’d like to hear some of my recent work, here you go!

The aesthetic of classical music recording & mixing

This week I’ve been thinking about the different places of pop and classical musicians within their respective record-making processes.

Dr Amy Blier-Carruthers’ 2013 paper about orchestral players’ dissatisfaction with the studio experience, “The Performer’s Place in the Process and Product of Recording”, details the tensions classical musicians feel about recording:

[There are] many examples of early recorded performers approaching the recording horn with trepidation and anxiety. But what is striking is that even after over a century of commercial classical recordings, many of the same issues are still in evidence today – distrust of the technology, dislike of the process, doubts about whether you like what is captured, disillusionment with the editing process, the thought of your performance going somewhere where you are no longer in control of it, the thought of a disembodied performance existing at all. […] Basically, even the biggest and best orchestras are in a way victims of the status quo: they are not getting the time and money and support necessary to give them the opportunity to get something that they are really happy with down on record.

For a musician like me, working in the field of popular music (and more specifically, rock, folk, pop and country), these issues are of very little concern. In an earlier post, I talked about the portrait-painting-vs-photography analogy to demonstrate a couple of prevalent record-making philosophies within pop music. To restate this as briefly as possible, most producers and engineers who work with popular-music artists are comfortable with the idea that, like portrait painters, their job is to construct a representation of reality in which aiming for exact adherence to the measurable world is only one possible approach; that is to say, a painting may capture the emotional truth of its subject without being anything close to a photo-realist depiction (as in, say, the works of Lucian Freud).

Or to put it another way, “To me, the evolution of the recording studio has made possible the record as a piece of self-contained art. A good record is a piece of art in itself, not just a document of some other ‘more valid’ art form” (Jack Endino, recording engineer famous for his work with Nirvana, Mudhoney and Soundgarden).

Think about this for a second. When you record a relatively small sound source such as a drum kit in a modern studio, most likely you’ll use multiple microphones (say, 8 or more) hung both close and at a distance, and an arsenal of sound-processing tools. As a result, the scope you have for presenting that sound source in different ways is immense. You can use mainly the close mics and present a tight, dry version of the performance. You can lean on the ambient ones and blow up the sound. Or you can blend the mics together to present something that cannot be experienced live: a drum performance with all the attack and nuances that the player hears from their stool that also has all the size and bloom that you would hear if you were standing 10 feet away. This isn’t achievable in real life unless you’ve found a way to exist in two positions at the same time (in which case, you’d better give Stephen Hawking a call). And you can also hear the drums in massively exaggerated stereo, with preposterous amounts of wave shaping from compressors and equalisers. In effect, you hear the drum kit turned into a cartoon of itself. Yet this is the aesthetic we’ve grown used to over the last hundred years of recording, and so it doesn’t sound weird to us. And when we see a band play in a pub and hear what a drum kit really sounds like, that doesn’t sound weird either. In this sense, if in no other, popular music exists in a state of grace. It is not hung up on notions of fidelity to the original sound or performance and it intuitively understands that the record and the live performance are separate and not interdependent

Blier-Carruthers argues that classical music has never really come round to this way of thinking. When recording, she says, performers “carry the live aesthetic with them into the recording session”. The majority of listeners share this aesthetic with the players, expecting recordings to present the music as they would experience it at a live performance, but to be without blemish, which a live performance by any group of musicians playing challenging music for 60 minutes or more never will be.

But there are several things to unpack here. Irrespective of the fact that the overwhelming majority of the audience would not hear a mistake (unless it was a soloist dramatically blowing a note, say) during a live performance, performers are aware when they’ve made one, and it’s only natural that this would be unpleasant for them to hear over and again while listening to a recording. Blier-Carruthers quotes some students as believing that the insistence on perfection in recording is hurting not only the recorded product, which tends to become sterile, but also the musicians’ ability to perform effectively in the concert hall, as they become concerned more with minimising errors than with playing expressively.

However, Blier-Carruthers seems to me to assume that classical listeners and players are an entirely separate breed to their pop music counterparts, which I don’t think is really true. There is a huge overlap. I’ve played folk and rock and country with numerous musicians whose training and background is concert hall and conservatory rather than pub and rehearsal room like my own, and the ability of most of them to move seamlessly between the two worlds is a defining quality of what makes these people great musicians. Not only are these players catholic in their tastes and repertoire, they’re technologically literate, too. They understand software editing of takes, and they know what is achievable using the modern tools of audio recording. They know that the recording is not a simple presentation of a one-off musical event; that it hasn’t been for a long time; that a producer employing an edit is not a condemnation of a player’s musical proficiency; and that the fact of your having been edited during recording is in no way a judgement on your ability to go out and play in an orchestra in front of an audience, doing so both expressively and technically correctly.

Indeed, it is often forgotten that throughout the history of recorded music, huge technical and theoretical strides in the recording of music have been achieved in the service of classical, rather than pop or rock, music. One thinks of the conductor Leopold Stokowski’s experiments in the early era of electrical recording with engineers from Bell Labs, searching for ever-greater volume and impact in recorded music; of Jack Somer’s work producing stereoised versions of mono recordings of Mussorgski and Dvorak for RCA in the early 1960s; of Thomas Stockham’s Soundstream recorder (the first digital recording system) being employed by Telarc’s Jack Renner for recordings of Holst and Tchaikovsky; and even of the oft-repeated (but still unverified) story about the CD being created to hold 74 minutes of music so that it could accommodate Beethoven’s Ninth.

In the early 1960s, the pianist Glenn Gould argued controversially for the need for classical music to develop an aesthetic of recording separate to that of the live performance:

The generation currently being subjected to the humiliation of public school solfège will be the last to attain their majority persuaded that the concert is the axis upon which the world of music revolves.

It is not.

In “The Prospects of Recording”, he details how he achieved this in his own recorded work, giving an example of edits made when recording the Fugue in A minor from Volume I of Bach’s The Well-Tempered Clavier*. It’s easy to fool yourself that you can hear the tape splice at bar 14, but given shift in the mood of the music – which was why Gould chose that moment to make his edit – the release of the pedals and the move up the keyboard of the right hand, I think the temptation to interpret that briefest of silences as an audible edit point would be a mistake; rests of that nature occur in music on all instruments with extreme frequency. As an engineer, I know all too well the experience of listening to a soloed vocal track, hearing a shift of timbre and assuming an edit between two takes occurred, only to look in the media pool in Cubase and find no such edit occurred and that that change of timbre was part of a live performance.

Gould, then, was extremely prescient:

When the performer makes use of this post-performance editorial decision, his role is no longer compartmentalized. In a quest for perfection, he sets aside the hazards and compromises of his trade. As an interpreter, as a go-between serving both audience and composer, the performer has always been, after all, someone with a specialist’s knowledge about the realization or actualization of notated sound symbols. It is, then, perfectly consistent with such experience that he should assume something of an editorial role.

He constructs an analogy to the work of Van Meegeren, who in the 1930s began producing Vermeer-like works that had an uncanny stylistic resemblance to the paintings of the master, which he then sold as Vermeer originals to German private collectors during the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands. Later charged with collaborating and selling national treasures for profit, he revealed they were not the work of Vermeer but his own work, but was nonetheless imprisoned.

Gould claims Van Meegeren as a personal hero, and argues he was treated unjustly – “The determination of the value of a work of art according to the information available about it is a most delinquent form of aesthetic appraisal. Indeed, it strives to avoid appraisal on any ground other than that which has been prepared by previous appraisals” – and goes on to conclude that:

As the performer’s once sacrosanct privileges are merged with the responsibilities of the tape editor and the composer, the Van Meegeren syndrome can no longer be cited as an indictment but becomes rather an entirely appropriate description of the aesthetic condition in our time. The role of the forger, of the unknown maker of unauthenticated goods, is emblematic of electronic culture. And when the forger is done honor for his craft and no longer reviled for his acquisitiveness, the arts will have become a truly integral part of our civilization.

This was extraordinary stuff for a classical musician to be writing in 1966, and Blier-Carruthers’ work interviewing young players tends to suggest that the world has not yet come around to Gould’s way of thinking. Young musicians are still being taught that the recording of a work shall be a representation of a concert performance of that work, and while all sorts of tricks are employed to produce the blemish-free representation supposedly required by producers; Blier-Carruthers does report producer Stephen Johns’s contention that he routinely gets asked by musicians to perform edits he deems unnecessary, as the musicians can’t live with releasing anything that could be judged not “perfect”.

As the world of classical music hasn’t yet established its own recording aesthetic separate to that of the concert hall, its critics, its listeners and many of its players remain babes in the woods where modern production techniques are concerned. A Joyce Hatto scandal could not happen in any field of popular music (and maybe not even in jazz). Pop music fans and critics do not as a rule care about such notions as the integrity of an individual musician’s performance, and even if they did, would not have bought William Barrington-Coupe’s cover story about splicing in tiny fragments of other recordings into otherwise genuine Hatto performances recorded in a shed in the bottom of their garden simply to cover mistakes and extraneous noises – how could a recording made in that environment sound anything like one made in a much larger acoustic space on an entirely different instrument with much more (and much better) technology employed in production? The willingness of some critics to entertain this possibility even for a second suggests a merely rudimentary understanding of what is possible today, even in the world of digital post-production, and a disconnect between the levels of recording literacy, so to speak, possessed by the older generation of fans and critics and the younger generation of fans and players.

I raise all this not to criticise the classical music industry and the way its musicians and critics are trained. Yet as I read back this week through Greg Milner’s magisterial Perfecting Sound Forever about the accomplishments of Stokowski, Thomas Stockham and Jack Renner, it’s striking that the most recent of these advances was still the better part of 40 years ago. It’s fascinating that an academic such as Dr Blier-Carutthers still needs to argue for “musicians and producers to work out new ways of conceptualizing, capturing and disseminating recorded music”, and even more so to wonder what might be accomplished if a record label decided that to try a method of recording and mixing that didn’t aim to replicate the real-world concert-hall listening experience. Are opportunities being missed, leaving today’s musicians caught unsatisfactorily between two worlds?

concert hall

*The next time you’re listening to a recording of a recording of a piano-led piece, listen hard to the stereo image of the piano. While anyone who isn’t sitting inside a Steinway grand facing the pianist will hear the piano as essentially a mono sound source within a stereo environment (the room – at least, as long as the listener can hear in both ears), it is, like the drum kit I discussed earlier, routinely recorded and presented in perceptible stereo. This is an example of a way in which classical music has taken a small step away from a prevailing naturalist aesthetic, but to nothing like the extent of rock and pop music, which, as noted above, often treats acoustic instruments in a wildly exaggerated and cartoonish fashion.