To create atmosphere during the sessions for Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde, Bob
Johnston ripped out the artists’ individual sound booths. If the players
were still making heavy weather of it, the producer would stride into the
studio, like a cuban-heeled sea captain from his cabin, to declare:
“Gentlemen, we just have too many men on the floor.” Otherwise, he simply
switched on the tapes and sat back. But there was something you couldn’t
bottle about how he ran the ship. So,when the Canadian art-rockers Arcade
Fire wanted to replicate that freewheeling energy on their new album, they
turned to Johnston — now 74 — for advice before producing it themselves.
Celebrated producers confer gravitas on bands aspiring to greatness. Or that’s
the idea. In January, Brian Eno let slip that he is working with Coldplay, a
band earnestly striving for both qualities. There was a “grim inevitability”
to the news, says Allan Jones, editor of the music magazine Uncut: “All
paths lead to Eno for anybody who takes themselves really seriously, as if
having his name on the album indicates adventure, but he won’t automatically
expand their musical horizons. Though he was ground-breaking with Talking
Heads and David Byrne, his success with U2 was about giving credibility to
stadium rock.”
In pairing big-name producers with big-name bands, record companies expect a
hike in performance and, thus, sales. A further, more immediate benefit is
extra publicity, as fans speculate whether a new direction will result.
“It’s like the Premiership,” says Andy Gill, whose latest production credit
is the Young Knives’ Voices of Animals and Men. “Top clubs want top managers
to work magic, and they do. You’d be mistaken to think it’s all PR.”
A producer’s task varies with each assignment, Gill explains. Some bands are
“too dogmatic”, others decidedly unprepared for recording. “On their first
album, the Red Hot Chili Peppers didn’t have a clue what the studio was
for,” he recalls. “I was talking to Anthony Kiedis about the vocals. I said,
‘It will sound different once it’s compressed.’ That’s a technical term for
bringing up the nuances, which — if taken to extremes — can sound distorted
and pretty exciting. But Anthony said, ‘Compressed? I don’t want my vocals
smaller.’ So a producer can end up mollifying an artist who thinks something
weird is being done to their performance. You have these strange,
semi-philosophical conversations about what is natural and what is
man-made.”
Apart from common sense in such Spinal Tap moments, the producer’s principal
asset is an impartial set of ears. “Sometimes, bands aren’t able to see the
bigger picture,” says Simon Tong, the Good, the Bad and the Queen’s
guitarist and co-owner of the folk label Butterfly. “Producers worth their
salt strip away the fluff and extraneous waffle an artist is too precious to
discard. Rick Rubin is great at getting down to the bare necessities of a
track.”
Rubin, the cuddly Hell’s Angel lookalike, who co-founded the rap label Def
Jam, yet coaxed haunting testaments from a dying Johnny Cash, works across
many genres. Other producers have their signature style. So, to predict what
your favourite band might do next, get acquainted with the mainstays of the
mixing desk — because, as Tong observes: “Few artists are capable of
recording great music without a producer. Brian Wilson did it, but he lost
his mind in the process.”
The boffin Perhaps because of the producer’s origins as humble tape
operator, boffin is the stereotype’s default setting. There has to be
somebody who knows how to work the equipment. Brian Eno, the egghead of
ambient, has many feathers to his boa but remains a gadgets man. And the
appeal of technical wizardry is powerful. The Flaming Lips are among
numerous bands who now trek to Dave Fridmann’s Tarbox Road studios to sample
his obscure squelches and bleepy effects. For budding geeks, however, the
tale of Joe Meek, the obsessive electronics genius who killed himself in
1967, is cautionary. Get out more.
The svengali Smacking of so-called “manufactured pop” and management’s
dark arts, svengali is a dirty word in rock circles, used to slander those
whose influence is frowned upon. Yet there are plenty of rock svengalis,
from the Rolling Stones’ Andrew Loog Oldham to the Sex Pistols’ Malcolm
McLaren, and now the mysterious Angelo, who “co-writes” with the rightly
raved-about Nashville longhairs Kings of Leon. Surely, though, the 1980s
chart conglomerate Stock Aitken Waterman — whom we must thank for Sinitta,
Mel & Kim and frizzy-era Kylie (and Jason) — “ain’t ever gonna be
respectable”?
The dude According to Dylan, Bob Johnston was “born 100 years too late
— he should have been wearing a wide cape, a plumed hat, and riding with his
sword held high”. Stylish machismo was also the personality trait of another
producer dude, David Briggs, who liked to pose with a Winchester rifle.
The famous friend They tour together, score together, sometimes even
snore together, so it’s inevitable that musicians often end up producing
their mates’ albums. Rock’s best friend is probably David Bowie, for
encouraging Iggy Pop and Lou Reed to new heights as solo artists. “Anyone
can stick a delay on a snare, but it’s all about getting a great
performance,” maintains Franz Ferdinand’s Alex Kapranos, who has been acting
the inspirational elder brother to the Cribs. But the downside of such
studio bonhomie is favouritism: blame Eminem for his boorish rap protégés 50
Cent and the truly third-rate D12.
The back-seat driver Long seen as the fifth Beatle, George Martin
recently revealed how much he steered the Fab Four’s early recordings. In
his words, the band were “crap” when he signed them, and Please Please Me
was “a horrible dirge” until he doubled the speed. Should current stars need
more oomph under the bonnet (Justin Timberlake, for one), they call a
hip-hop producer and say: “Pimp my album.” Working with the Neptunes or Tim
“Timbaland” Mosley (above) boosts cred and offers a jump-start in terms of
sonic inventiveness. Everybody knows the mechanic has taken the wheel, yet
it often pays for the producer to stay in the back. Pharrell’s front-seat
forays have so far struggled to shift gear.
The wall of sound Mad, bad and dangerous to work with, Phil Spector
ticks every box and more. Tyrant, control freak and megalomaniac, say the
Ramones, the Ronettes and, bizarrely, the Wigan wet lettuce leaves
Starsailor, who had a brush with the “tycoon of teen” in 2003. After
inventing the “wall of sound” — his trademark orchestral thump — he hastened
the Beatles’ break-up over Let It Be and nearly deafened John Lennon by
firing a gun into the ceiling. Is he pop’s showiest one-trick pony? Maybe
so. But more severe judgments could soon be passed on a man who is
reportedly afflicted with schizophrenia. Spector’s career will seem a minor
detail if he is convicted of murdering the actress Lana Clarkson. His
long-delayed trial begins later this month.
