Hallelujah Ch. 01

"Uh," it's strange enough a question that I almost don't ask it, "who are we recording?"

Bennie waves his hand dismissively, his face squinting up like something stinks. "It's nothing to get excited about, I'm afraid. Guy's name is Ted Fields. Goes by Teddy. He's got a good band behind him, and he turns a mean phrase, but he's nothing worth putting on your resume. He's signed to a vanity label owned by Epic, has two records out. Good luck finding them, if that's what you intend to do. My understanding is that this song is getting cut for a soundtrack to some low budget movie or other. It's a credits song, although if it's good enough it could show up on his next album. For whatever that's worth." The look on his face tells me exactly what he thinks that's worth. "Oh, you'll be in studio H," he adds as an afterthought.

Great. Studio H isn't so much a studio as it is a mixing board, a set of monitor speakers, and a recording room you'd never hope to fit a band in. "I thought studio H was mostly for vocals," I try not to sound as disappointed as I am.

"It is," he shrugs. "But Teddy Fields says it makes him feel trapped, he says he likes that, and his label plays along because it's so much cheaper than the other rooms." He barks a laugh, shoulders leaping up as if to touch his ears. "Rediculous, the things we put up with."

I give him a fake smile, something I've been doing a lot lately, and think about Teddy Fields. He likes the way the room makes him feel trapped. That's funny to me, because trapped is exactly how this place is starting to make me feel.

Later that night, I do manage to find Teddy Fields's albums...on iTunes, of all places. Nothing is out of print in a digital age. I'm sure Bennie couldn't care less. I listen to them, and for what it's worth they don't really jump out at me. I like the sound of his voice...a deep, damaged, aching sound that crumples inward on the softer songs and becomes smoke. The lyrics are indeed solid, but the music is all forgettable. I do notice that the mixing on his records is really uneven. I can hear drums, bass, acoustic guitar, lap steel slide guitar, and piano, but the acoustic was way too loud in the mix. Of all the instruments, it seems to have the least interesting parts...it just strums its way through without variation. But it's front and center with the bass and drums, and it makes the songs feel very samey. The mournful slide and the minimalist piano are relegated to the distance. I sit and listen at my computer, pulling from a bottle of Buck Nelson's homemade shiraz, and try to imagine what it might sound like with the parts all rearranged. Push the acoustic into the background, ask the drummer to play with more of a jazzy cymbal-tapping style, put an echoey delay on the slide and bring it up...I can almost imagine something beautiful in there.

The aforementioned Buck is my next door neighbor, and his passion is winemaking. Apparently that's even harder to get into than music, as careers go, so he's had to keep it on the side as a hobby. He works downtown in the AT&T building, and he looks like your typical office jockey slacker guy. He spends his weekends in sandals, shorts, and Jimmy Buffett concert shirts. He's a lot of fun, and very quick to share his wine.

By the time ol' Buck's shiraz is gone, I've moved on both physically and mentally. I spend the last hour before I crawl into bed sitting on my porch, basking in the Nashville humidity and watching the moon crest. I wonder idly about Jasmine...where she is, if she's still up or if it's past her bedtime. I wonder if she has kids. I am a bit drunk, and maudlin drunk at that. My big victorious return to the home that had exiled me is so far one big understated disappointment. The job, to be honest, looks to suck. While the studio itself is nice I don't care for the people at all. And, I miss the creative fire of Ladyland. The money is okay, but nothing to brag to anyone about. And now being here, in the place where we had had so many great times, has knocked me straight back to pining after my ex-almost-wife. When I finally hit the pillow, I lay there and fantasize about finding out where she lives, where she buys her groceries, and arranging to "accidentally" run into her there. It sounds stupid and obsessive even to me, but it's just a fantasy. Anyway, what would I tell her? What could I possibly say?

And what exactly do I think would impress her about me, now?

Sleep comes for me before I can try to answer.

--

Monday morning I plant myself in the unyielding maroon office chair that mans the consol of Studio D. It's just after nine o'clock, and I've spent the last ninety minutes prepping the equipment. The board is lit up, the tubes are warm, the signal chain is good...I'm all set.



I lean back and look around...and almost fall over. I'm glad no one saw that. The low-backed chair might fit the motif, but it's better suited to telemarketing or a parent-teacher conference than a recording engineer. After some experimenting, I determine that the only way to really find any comfort in it is to sit with near perfect posture and your butt pushed as far back as possible...and calling that comfort is really, really pushing it. I ponder the risk of bringing my own chair in to use...except I don't have a chair. Yet.

And now, I wait.

About twenty minutes after the session is supposed to start, Bennie pops in. He doesn't seem surprised to see me all alone in the soft-lit room. He just smiles and looks around like a proud papa.

"I never get tired of seeing this," he says. "I bet you never worked with a setup like this up in New York, eh?"

"Nope," I shrug. It's true. I never had to try and record a full band in a vocal booth in New York. New York was way better.

"I just came down to warn you," he continues, "you've gotta be careful with this fella. Teddy Fields is a...well, he's a different sort." He clamps a large, sweaty hand on my shoulder. "He can be pretty frustrating to work with. He doesn't understand the science of recording, you know?" He taps the mixing console, like I couldn't have figured out what he meant otherwise.



"Few musicians do," I point out. "I drove out to sit in on a mixing session for a movie soundtrack Eddie Vedder did out in Seattle a few years ago, and he didn't even know what a compressor did."

The hand disappears from my shoulder. From the disapproving look, I figure ol' Bennie doesn't know who Eddie Vedder is any more than Eddie knew that a compressor helps soften the louder moments in a track so that the overall volume can be brought up. Some of Pearl Jam's later albums suffer from too much compression in my mind, pushing levels up to the point of losing a lot of the dynamics. This is something that could be prevented if they just knew a little more about the process, and I suspect that Bennie's lack of knowledge of the pop world is as detrimental to his work as their lack of technical awareness is to theirs.



"Anyway," he takes on a patient tone that raises the hairs on the back of my neck, "this one, he's...different. I don' jus' mean he can't figure the gear. He's tryin' to pitch from outside the ballpark, you know? Last time he came through, he wanted to record the whole band using only room mics. Room mics! Not one microphone within two feet of anything, you understand? Not even a mic to sing into!" He rolls his eyes and gives one of his barking laughs. "He couldn't figure why we wouldn't do it. Can you imagine that? We even muted everything and put one mic out in front and let him try it, just to show him what a stupid idea it was, but the dumbass loved it! It sounded like listening to a dog take a shit through a tin can phone, and he loved it. So you may have to be a little firm with him. Don' worry about making the artist angry, now. Just give it to 'em straight. 'round here we answer to the label first, the producer second, and never the singer. It ain't our job to humor them. We ain't their managers, and we ain't their mommas...assuming those aren't two words for the same thing. We just record."

"And that," a deep, sandpapered voice rolls in from the doorway, "is the problem." With no further introduction, Teddy Fields steps into the room and into my life. A short man in his early 30's with unkempt, though not especially long, hair, he has a prominent chin and a very expressive face. A crumpled suit jacket hands over a snug white shirt. His jeans are dusty...I don't know why that stands out for me, but it does. "It's why we'll never see eye to eye, Bennie," he continues. "You just record. You record instruments, and voices" he waves his hands expressively around himself, "and I want to record the air between them." I can't help but smile at that. His gaze falls on me, and the grin spreads. He has tired eyes, and they might threaten to age him prematurely if not for the fact that they are constantly sparkling, teasing the smallest hint of amusement. I immediately like this guy. It's refreshing after hanging out with Bennie nonstop for two weeks.

"Well," Bennie joins us in smiling, albeit insincerely, "once we get that first million seller out of the way you can start spending label money any which way you want. We're just trying to help you get to that level of success where you can do as you please with your music. You understand."

Teddy winks again. It's an affectation so fast that it almost seems like a nervous twitch. "Ain't no million people ever gonna buy my records," he takes on Bennie's drawl, teasing but not mocking. "and I don't find that near as upsetting as you do."

"Well you should," Bennie sniffs and glances at his clipboard dismissively. "Now Jacob here will be lookin' after you, Teddy, so don't give him a hard time. You all just cut the rhythm track the way Walter talked about, and this afternoon he'll be back to help you finish up. And of course," he gives me a knowing look, "I'm right down the hall if you should need me." I bite the inside of my lip. I guess I'm getting to see just how much Bennie respects me as a colleague...about the same as a McDonald's manager respects the brace-faced sixteen year old he hired to work the drive-thru for the summer. I'm both embarrassed and furious, but fortunately Bennie leaves before I give in to the desire to snap at him.

Teddy and I look at each other for a moment, those tired eyes of his still lit. I feel bad for him...if Bennie wants to be a douchebag to me, well, at least I can shrug and know that he is indeed my superior. I mean, it's my BOSS who is treating me like shit. Teddy Fields is a songwriter, a singer and a musician. He's the whole reason we're here, the living embodiment of our purpose, and Bennie damn near scolded him like a naughty schoolboy. Why is Bennie even in the business, if he can stand in a recording studio of all places and casually deride the curious spark of the truly creative? So what if Teddy is a little nontechnical, or a little far out in his thinking? Fuck, John Lennon was both of those things, and probably much worse about it than Teddy Fields. It was John who had asked engineer Geoff Emerick, during the Revolver sessions, if he could tie him to a rope and swing him around the microphone as he sang. Fortunately for him, Emerick had better ideas. But I have to wonder...how would Bennie have felt about John Lennon? How would anybody in this fucking place have felt about him?

"Haven't I seen you before?" Teddy asks suddenly, snapping my thoughts back to the present.

"I don't think so, but it's possible. I was living up in New York until a few weeks ago."

"No. It was here. I'm sure of it."

I look around the room, a little uncomfortable now. "Not a chance of that, I'm afraid. This is my first session in Blackbird."

"I don't mean the studio. I mean Nashville."

I shrug. "I grew up here."

"Hm." For a moment he's watching me a bit too closely. Then he relaxes and says, "It'll come to me, eventually. For now the boys are on their way up, so we might as well get to the task at hand." He turns to go down the hall and get his gear, then pauses and looks over his shoulder at me. "And Jacob?"

"Yeah?"

"Pay Bennie no mind. He's past praying for. I mean that."

Tell me about it.

-

Forty minutes later we're all introduced and set up. The band is rehearsing, and I'm playing with the levels and trying to get the right sound. I'm also going over the musician's names in my head over and over in the hopes that something might stick.

Balancing precariously on his stool, swishing his brush sticks and setting the pace, is Paul Spears. About fifty pounds overweight, he takes up more room than the sparse kit he's brought with him today. Calling it a kit is overly kind; all he has is a kick, snare, and high hat. He's got a thick black goatee on his face and almost nothing on his head. He smiles whenever he plays, or at least it looks like a smile.

Fingering the neck of his stand-up bass is Brooke Meadows. Tall and thin, he looks a little sickly. But then, lots of guys in bands look a little sickly. If you're not the Rolling Stones, odds are you live off of fast food and macaroni and cheese most of the time. The guy must play his instrument way too much because, even when he's away from it, he leans forward like he's supporting its weight. It's a terrible posture.

Out in the control room with me, not contributing to this first run, is a guy calling himself Mickey English. No shit. I'm not sure that's a real name. It doesn't matter if it is. Mick's the piano player, and the piano will have to be cut seperately for the simple fact that I can't fit him in the room. He's sprawled out on the control room sofa, playing the air as if his, long boney fingers were dancing around a keyboard. Otherwise, he just looks bored.

He wanted to be in there, so I'm sure he doesn't like me. My first act with this band had to involve putting my foot down, taking the heat for everybody else's stupid ideas...the guys wanted to cut everything together, playing the way they normally would on stage. When you have lots of room and isolation booths that's an option. As it is, the three guys who will be in the recording room today are practically elbow to elbow. Even with carefully chosen and placed mics, I'm gonna get a lot of bleed. And probably some shit from the producer, when he shows.

I don't know where that acoustic player I heard on the records is. Maybe he got fired, or just isn't coming in today. It's not important...hell, that acoustic was the worst thing about the songs that I heard earlier. Getting rid of it can only be a blessing.

Teddy's in the room with the drums and bass, coloring the passages with his aching pedal steel slide parts, but I'm not recording him. I figure he'll get picked up a little on the mics I have set up, but he's already agreed to overdub his part again later, by itself, so we can get a proper fix on it. The aural shadows of him playing will show up in the background of the bass and drum, but they'll seem like reverby, almost inaudable decoration. You'll need good headphones to hear them, but they'll add texture you're not even aware you're appreciating.

They've run through the song seven times as I set levels, and to be honest I'm not real impressed. I like Teddy a lot more than I like his music, I guess. I mean, melodically it's pretty great, but the performance just falls flat.

I like to think I have a pretty good poker face to keep from hurting the musicians feelings, but maybe Teddy can read people or something, because he leans towards the snare mic (it's not but three feet from where he's sitting) and his sore throat voice comes out the monitor speakers, filling the control room with his presense. "I don't know. It just seems wrong, doesn't it Jake?"

Yeah, it really does. It sounds like a bad cover of a good track. "No," I lie. "It's fine."

He looks at me for a moment. "We're gonna do one more run-through, but this time we're gonna play it the way we play it. Not the way Russell wants it played. And this time I'm gonna sing. I know you won't be able to hear me too well, but I just want to see what you think. Is that okay?"

I need a few more minutes with the levels anyway. "Sure thing, but when we record it'll have to be the way Walter asked."

He doesn't respond to that. Instead, he just leans back and smiles as the three of them pick up the intro of the song. My fingers freeze on the faders.

Before, it had been sounding a bit like a cross between an uninspired blues track and failed adult radio rock. It was safe music, the kind of thing old men appreciate and don't buy. Unemotional stuff, and forgettable. Now the band takes it at a more laconic pace, with all three players doing a lot less actual playing and letting their few movements speak that much more for the lack of what's being said. Teddy's voice rumbles over the empty space, no longer sounding like a part of the landscape. Played this way, with so much room for his voice to move in, it becomes a mile-deep chasm in the listener's heart. Paul Spears nods along like a silent click track, but he doesn't so much as touch the kick drum for the first two minutes. Instead, he relies mostly on barely noticable soft taps of the high hat. Brooke Meadows lets most of his bass notes sustain for so long that when he does toss in a little climb that leads into the chorus, it tickles your ear. Teddy's silvery, swaying slide playing hovers over it all like a weary ghost. And at that magical two minute mark, when the first boom of the kick drum (and it is a boom, now, not the softer beat from the earlier performances) finally appears, the impact is so dynamic that it feels like timpani. The song is suddenly spiralling up into a crescendo of emotion, with Teddy belting in a register almost out of his reach and at such great volume his face is red and he can be heard crystal clear over the monitor speakers.

"...so we bring down the flag

of what never could last.

You can't steer a ship with your faith.

And the wind still pulls me far from the mast,

But if you cling to the rail now,

You're safe.

As long as I'm here you'll be safe."

His head goes back like a man gasping for air, freshly surfaced from the sea. And, just like that, the playing softens and the song has gone.

For the first time since I got to Nashville, I'm excited. My heart pounds. This four minute swirl of sound has melted every bit of cynicism in me. I hit the talkback. "That was incredible! THAT'S how you play it?" He nods. "Jesus, Teddy...Walter didn't prep the song for recording. He fucking murdered it!"

"Well, I'm glad you approve," Teddy says with a sardonic smile. "But we'd better get to cutting Dad's version before he gets home."

"Fuck that," I stand up, leaning over the consol. There's adrenaline in my veins. I'm ice cold, like I just bathed in near-frozen water. Teddy Fields, with a song, has reminded me why I ever cared about this stuff to begin with. He's altered my course. And isn't that exactly how it should be? Isn't that supposed to be the power of the song? Isn't that why gospel music is more universal than gospel? Why 1960's teenagers dropped jaw when they saw The Beatles hit Sullivan, or heard Jagger spit out 'Satisfaction?' Why so many people can remember the first time they heard The Ramones or The Clash? Isn't that what music is supposed to be?

The power to redefine you in three minutes time?

I'm converted, one of the faithful. And this job fucking sucks. I make a decision. "Forget Walter's arrangement. We're cutting your version. And we're gonna try and get the whole thing down before he shows up. If he still wants to start all over from scratch, that's his beef."

Behind me, Mick pushes himself upright. He's looking at me like he only just noticed that I'm in the room with him. "Are you sure we should do that?" He asks, but he has a knowing grin. "I mean, we wouldn't want to be responsible for you getting fired, or..."