Hallelujah Ch. 01

"Don't worry about it," I interject. I'll admit to being nervous. The last thing I need is to have them giving me second thoughts. This feels like a good decision. "This job has turned out to be real shit, and it's been a long time since I've had the satisfaction of getting fired."

"Mick," Fields's voice booms into the room, "wouldn't you do the same thing, if the alternative was a lifetime spent working next to Bennie Rich?"

"Oh," Mick gives a cough-like laugh, "yeah. Definitely would."

"Alright," I say, "let's work quickly. No more wasted time." A thought strikes me, and I get curious. "Can I offer a suggestion, Teddy?"

"What's that?"

"Try dropping it down half a step or so. It's got a great, moody low end, and that kick drum really seals the deal, but it should make the empty space feel that much more mysterious if you drop the key. It'll also be easier for you to sing."

Teddy looks around at his bandmates, and Brooke Meadows gives him a shrug. "Alright," he says, "we'll try it your way. Whaddya know, kid? You're a producer."

I guess I am.

We work fast. I end up overcompressing the kick mic and feeding a little reverb into it, to give the kick drum even more of a booming timpani sound. The guys seem to approve. They tear through six takes of the rhythm track, and all six are solid...the fourth one is perfect, really. We decide to record Teddy playing and singing over it at the same time, to not only keep his performance as natural as possible but also ensure that we get done before Russell shows up. On a whim, I suggest to him that with so much space for the vocal, we can give the recording a live, large feeling by doing exactly what Teddy Fields always wished he could do: we mic him from a distance. Not the guitar, mind you...I want that all shimmers and echoes floating over the rhythm...but his voice. I place a Neumann U87, a mic worth more than my car, about four feet from where he's sitting. It'll pick up some of the guitar, too, but that will just serve to enhance its otherworldly quality.

Fields blows the song out of the water in just one take.

He does play a slightly different bit on the bridge, but having the original part humming distant and muffled where it was picked up by the drum kit mics only serves to make the bridge feel more ghostly.

The piano is missing yet, but it's already a potent track. One of the best I've ever worked on. And all of this in a few hours time.

Basically, that's all there is to do. We're sitting in the control room talking shop, waiting for Dad to show, when a thought occurs to me.

"Say," I ask, "both your records have acoustic guitar on them. In fact, listening to them, I assumed at first that it was you," I nod to Teddy. "Is that guy just not here today?"

A shared glance amongst them and I know something's up.

Paul answers me with a sneer. "That fucking guitar. There is no acoustic player in this band. Our first producer was actually the brother of the guy who owns the label our records come out on. Didn't know shit about music. He figured the acoustic would streamline our sound a bit...'easier to appreciate,' was the phrase he used. Anyway, we balked, he went to his brother, and before we knew it we had a choice to make: add the acoustic or find a new label."

"We," Teddy notes drily, "wouldn't have a lot of luck with that."

"So we kept it. Stupid decision, really. It ruined the record."

I nod. "It doesn't help, either, that he made it the centerpiece of every song. It's the loudest thing on there."

"Exactly," Mick nods. "And then Walter produced our last album, and he thought it was the only saving grace of our sound. Fuck. I can't tell you how many people have bought our record after seeing us live and then complained about that guitar."

"Tell me something, Jake," Teddy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, "are you really going to get fired over this?"

"Over what?" We all turn to the new voice coming from the doorway. Walter Russell has entered the room. "Why are we talking about people getting fired?" He gives us a warm southern smile. It doesn't make me feel better.

One look at the man has given me the answer to Teddy's question. Walter is a bit old for a producer...maybe in his late fifties...with a tucked in button up and a Colonel Sanders goatee. He's fat, with a swollen red face and polished cowboy boots. He has a large belt buckle. His hair is short and swirly on top of his head, and he's wearing a tie with a picture of Texas on it.

Make no mistake about it: Walter Russell is old school country.

"Yes," I say to Teddy, thinking of the 'angels flying over a bayou' sound we've crafted and contrasting it to the one Russell's directions would have produced. "I think I am."