stupid studio mistake
Don't you hate it when everything goes right, and then the one thing that has to go right goes wrong?
I've done several recording sessions recently with other folks. I played piano and produced and provided backing vocals, melodica, fake kazoo, codfish laughter, and a sea-captain personification for Owen Duggan's new, very successful children's CD An Elephant Never Forgets. I played piano and also gave lots of wanted and unwanted advice on singer-songwriter Doug McNeel's forthcoming CD The Great Awakening. And, just recently, I was the pianist as well as the sole engineer and producer for a new recording by bassist Brandon Rivas.
Rivas is a laid-back perfectionist, a thumpy, groovy string bass player who knows how to solo, and to make his bass sound like a bass — a disturbingly rare thing in an era in which, 30 years after the fact, so many bassists still have Jaco envy.
He asked Darren Kuper and me to join him for a project. He knew how we played, and how we functioned as a unit (even without, for obvious reasons, the thumpy-groovy Greg Norris), and he knew that we preferred simple recording techniques — no fancy gadgets, no studio wizardry, just live without a net. He took us in for a session that lasted a total of 2 hours, which is nearly impossible these days, and said we were going to get set up, one stereo mic and one bass mic, straight to two-track tape, one take for every song. If we mess up, we go on. Then he'll choose the performances he likes from that. We were born ready for that kind of gig.
Anyway, back to the going right/going wrong. The fragment you are about to hear is the final sixteen bars or so of "What a Wonderful World," the sentimental but unsticky ballad that was Louis Armstrong's last hit. We'd come through a very loose interpretation of it — Brandon had encouraged us to get a Keith Jarrett kind of sound, very unravelled-sounding, with complicating, surprising harmonies — and were making the final gestures. It was near-perfect, right down to the last note. I decided to play a flat-VIIM9 chord on the final note of the melody: you'll hear it. It's a common but fresh-sounding way of extending the resolution for just a bit, so that when it finally gets to the home chord you get a nice ahhhh effect. Everyone went with me on this. And then on the final chord, even though we'd rallentandoed to a very very slow, free rhythm, Darren and I struck at precisely the right time. That's exactly the kind of telecommunication that makes playing with him so much fun.
But even in the modern age, jazz brings surprises.
Dang it.
I've done several recording sessions recently with other folks. I played piano and produced and provided backing vocals, melodica, fake kazoo, codfish laughter, and a sea-captain personification for Owen Duggan's new, very successful children's CD An Elephant Never Forgets. I played piano and also gave lots of wanted and unwanted advice on singer-songwriter Doug McNeel's forthcoming CD The Great Awakening. And, just recently, I was the pianist as well as the sole engineer and producer for a new recording by bassist Brandon Rivas.
Rivas is a laid-back perfectionist, a thumpy, groovy string bass player who knows how to solo, and to make his bass sound like a bass — a disturbingly rare thing in an era in which, 30 years after the fact, so many bassists still have Jaco envy.
He asked Darren Kuper and me to join him for a project. He knew how we played, and how we functioned as a unit (even without, for obvious reasons, the thumpy-groovy Greg Norris), and he knew that we preferred simple recording techniques — no fancy gadgets, no studio wizardry, just live without a net. He took us in for a session that lasted a total of 2 hours, which is nearly impossible these days, and said we were going to get set up, one stereo mic and one bass mic, straight to two-track tape, one take for every song. If we mess up, we go on. Then he'll choose the performances he likes from that. We were born ready for that kind of gig.
Anyway, back to the going right/going wrong. The fragment you are about to hear is the final sixteen bars or so of "What a Wonderful World," the sentimental but unsticky ballad that was Louis Armstrong's last hit. We'd come through a very loose interpretation of it — Brandon had encouraged us to get a Keith Jarrett kind of sound, very unravelled-sounding, with complicating, surprising harmonies — and were making the final gestures. It was near-perfect, right down to the last note. I decided to play a flat-VIIM9 chord on the final note of the melody: you'll hear it. It's a common but fresh-sounding way of extending the resolution for just a bit, so that when it finally gets to the home chord you get a nice ahhhh effect. Everyone went with me on this. And then on the final chord, even though we'd rallentandoed to a very very slow, free rhythm, Darren and I struck at precisely the right time. That's exactly the kind of telecommunication that makes playing with him so much fun.
But even in the modern age, jazz brings surprises.
Dang it.
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