by Ramone, Phil
Because they were recorded live and the songs went through many permutations as the band worked to define—and redefine—their design, many of Billy Joel’s recordings contain small, fortuitous miscues. We often left such missteps in, as Billy and I both felt they reflected the spontaneity inherent in the band’s sound.
As Billy remembers, one such error occurred during the recording of “A Room of Our Own” for The Nylon Curtain:
“In the part where I sing, ‘Yes, we all need a room of our own’ before I go into the final vamp, my drummer [Liberty DeVitto] got confused and started to play the beat backwards. He was still playing in time, but he suddenly turned the time signature inside out. There was a look of horror on Liberty’s face, but we could see Phil in the control room waving his arms, telling us, ‘Keep going! It sounds great!’”
Mistakes that work in your favor can be technical too, as Billy learned when he erased part of a tape during another session for The Nylon Curtain.
“On ‘Pressure,’ the noise that sounds like the horn of a French taxicab—that strange, breathless staccato beep—is actually a tape of me singing every note in my repertoire,” Billy explained. “We recorded me singing the notes, and then loaded the tape into an effects gadget called an Emulator. Then, we overdubbed me hollering, ‘PRESH-AR!’ with the same inflection that a Royal Air Force captain might use to bark out a command like ‘TEN-HUT!’
“While the master tape was running, I impulsively hit all the buttons on the tape machine to punch out everything but the section with the yelling. Phil was dumbstruck. ‘God! What did you do? You erased part of the song!’ Phil was right: for that one segment everything stops dead but my voice, but it was just what the track needed.”
In this instance, I agreed with Billy: the inadvertent error added an inexplicable dimension to an already stylized song. A different artist (or producer) might have disagreed and asked for a retake, but I believed then (as I do now) that a producer’s role is to objectively guide the creation without stifling it.
Amongst musicians and engineers, I’m known for recording rehearsals.
Whenever possible, I arrange to hold rehearsals in the studio, where I can put up a few microphones and record it professionally. Portable digital recorders make it much easier to record a remote rehearsal; the best we could do outside of the studio twenty years ago was run a cassette, which wasn’t optimal.
What’s the advantage of recording a rehearsal?
Paul Simon’s “Loves Me Like A Rock” is a prime example of how a rehearsal tape can be a lifesaver. Paul had made an acoustic guitar-and-vocal demo of the song, and the next day we rehearsed with the Dixie Hummingbirds, a vocal group that was well versed in the gospel vernacular.
Among gospel quartets, the Hummingbirds were the most colorful—and versatile. While steeped in the tradition of jubilee gospel music of the 1920s, their sound was inflected with elements of hard gospel, blues, jazz, and pop. The secret to their distinctive style was “trickeration,” an overlapping-note technique in which a member of the group would pick up a note just before lead singer Ira Tucker finished it. Tucker was a physical performer who would jump, shout, and fall to his knees in prayer; there was always a great interplay between the Hummingbirds and their audience.
In setting up the rehearsal I thought, how am I going to fit the group in the vocal booth? “Loves Me Like A Rock” is not a “booth” kind of song, nor are the Dixie Hummingbirds a group that’s accustomed to being confined. To solve the problem I sat them in a circle (which helped them feed off one another) and dropped a single Neumann U47 microphone in their midst. I put a second mike in front of Paul.
The rehearsal was magnificent; everyone was clustered around the microphones, singing, shaking their heads, stomping their feet, and clapping while Paul played guitar and sang. It was the most unrestrained performance I’d heard in a long time: in the hands of that group—in that particular setting—the song was elevated to a whole other spiritual level. It was rollicking, earthy, and fun—jubilation personified. The groove was so infectious that I couldn’t get the tune out of my head, and I had high hopes for the “real” session the following day.
The clincher is we didn’t rerecord “Loves Me Like A Rock” the next day.
When we came back to lay it down, we just couldn’t catch the right feel. Despite everyone’s efforts, the formal attempts never came close to the exuberant “rocking-down-the-house” performance I’d heard the day before.
Looking to refresh everyone’s memory, I pulled the rehearsal tape and called Paul and the Dixie Hummingbirds into the booth. They gathered around the console, and after listening, agreed that nothing they had done that day could touch the infectious groove of the rehearsal. “Why not use it, then?” I asked. All we needed to do was overdub the band (including Paul Simon on electric guitar, David Hood on bass, and Roger Hawkins on drums), and the composite mix became the record.
Does it matter whether something that contributes to the appeal of a record is intentional or happenstance, or if the final record contains a minor flaw? Not to me. A record doesn’t have to be musically or technically faultless to be good.
Some artists and producers spend months or years polishing every note until their record is perfect. I’m all for doing things right—just not at the expense of that spine-tingling moment when the music sounds spontaneous and real.
When it comes to making records, substance should outweigh perfection. Great records are all about feel, and if it comes down to making a choice, I’ll go for a take that makes me dance over a bland one with better sound any day.
Fiddling around for violinist Nigel Kennedy, Paul McCartney, and Beatles producer George Martin Phil Ramone Collection
TRACK 3
Music First!
Everybody wants a hit.
The songwriter, artist, engineer, and producer all pray for hits and the prizes that go along with them, such as a coveted spot on the Billboard charts or a Grammy Award.
I’ll get back to the subject of hits in a few moments. But first, let me explain how The Nylon Curtain, the fourth (and most ambitious) record that Billy Joel and I made together, came about.
One day in 1982, Billy said, “I want to make a good ‘headphones album,’ and use exotic instrumentation and layering the way the Beatles did.” We were both in awe of the Beatles and what they and producer George Martin accomplished with Rubber Soul, Revolver, and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
“I’m Only Sleeping,” “Within You, Without You,” and “Norwegian Wood” were very different from earlier Beatles recordings such as “I Saw Her Standing There,” “Twist and Shout,” and “All My Loving.”
The use of nontraditional instruments (often detuned), and technical effects such as ADT (Artificial Double Tracking) and the Mellotron (an electromechanical keyboard using magnetic tape loops), brought unusual contrasts and textures to the band’s experimental recordings of the mid-1960s.
The time for a departure from Billy’s past work seemed right; there was little to lose with The Nylon Curtain.
Billy’s previous three albums (The Stranger, 52nd Street, and Glass Houses) were extremely successful, and yielded a torrent of songs that were staples of Top 40 radio, including “Movin’ Out (Anthony’s Song),” “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant,” “She’s Always a Woman,” “Only the Good Die Young,” “Just the Way You Are,” “Big Shot,” “My Life,” “You May Be Right,” and “It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me.”
I saw Billy’s suggestion as an opportunity to make a credible avant-garde statement. Our palette was vast, and I thought a lot about how to give The Nylon Curtain an unexpected dimension. After hearing a sample of the songs that Billy was considering for the album, I became very excited.
The Nylon Curtain marked Billy’s maturation as a writer.
Some songs—like “Allentown” and “Goodnight Saigon”—had salient sociopolitical overtones. Others—“Laura,” “Scandinavian Skies,” and “Where�
�s the Orchestra?”—were philosophical and dark. Production-wise, each song begged for an aggressive, unexpected approach.
To help create the rich aural experience that Billy had dreamed of we used vocal treatments and sound effects liberally on The Nylon Curtain, and imbued it with an abundance of odd instrumental textures. We broke our own mold with The Nylon Curtain; it was our form of musical expressionism, and the closest we came to approaching a concept album.
In concept and execution the album was smart and cohesive, and when it was finished we eagerly previewed it for the executives at Columbia Records.
Our enthusiasm was soon to evaporate.
The label proclaimed the album “too strange and impressionistic.” A few people—including Billy’s manager—took to calling it The Nylon Schmata.
What bugged me most was the audacious question posed by Columbia’s promotion men: “Where’s the ‘Movin’ Out’ kind of song?”
The real question—the one they were afraid to ask—was, “Where’s your hit?”
Forget that The Nylon Curtain contained “Allentown,” “Pressure,” and “Goodnight Saigon.” At that moment, Columbia’s perception was that the songs on the album weren’t cast in the predictable Top 40–AM radio mold, and they all but dismissed it.
I can assure you that having a hit record is wonderful—it can truly change your life. But I can also tell you that it’s risky for an artist or producer to go into the studio hell-bent on making one.
So, what do I tell an artist, manager, or record company executive who asks, “Could this [or will this] record be a hit?” I tell them the truth: Picking a hit from a batch of songs is nebulous at best. It’s dangerous, too. As good as a record might sound while you’re creating it, it’s hard to predict whether radio—and the public—will embrace it.
“But isn’t it your job as the producer to spot a potential hit?” you might ask. “Can’t a producer hear when a song or performance has all the earmarks of a hit?”
The answers are “Yes, and yes.” But it’s not always that simple.
A seasoned producer knows when the right song or the right take is there. But being that close to the creation can be overwhelming, and it’s difficult to objectively say, “This record is going to be a hit.” You may think a particular record has the potential to hit it big, but you avoid saying it for fear of jinxing yourself.
How do I know when we’ve got something special brewing in the room? The skin on the back of my neck begins to tingle. The people around me know it when my body starts grooving to the music.
Occasionally I’ll get “the feeling,” only to learn that the artist disagrees with my assessment. When that happens, I’ll explain my reasoning and encourage them to reconsider my opinion.
I’m mindful that it’s the artist’s name and picture on the album cover—not mine. But there are times when a songwriter or performer is so caught up in writing or polishing a song that they lose objectivity. If the artist and I disagree and I feel strongly about a song’s potential, it’s my obligation to defend my position to the end.
Here’s an example that might surprise you.
One day I told Billy Joel that we could use another ballad for The Stranger. “Well, here’s a song we’ll never record,” he said. “But you should hear it.”
Billy prefaced his live demo of the song by explaining that he had performed it a few times in concert, but no one in the band—including him—was overjoyed with it. He then sat at the piano and halfheartedly played me a tune called “Just the Way You Are.”
I liked the song—a lot—and despite Billy’s trepidation, we agreed to run it down at the next session.
As Billy recalls:
“We originally played ‘Just the Way You Are’ as a cha-cha: ‘Don’t go changing (cha-cha-cha)—just to please me (cha-cha-cha).…’ Well, Liberty DeVitto got so pissed that he threw his drum sticks at me. ‘I’m no goddamned sissy drummer,’ he said. It was a chick song, and we really weren’t sure about it from the start. But Phil lobbied hard to include it on The Stranger. He never said, ‘That’s a hit,’ because it wouldn’t have sat well with us. All Phil kept saying was, ‘That’s a song you definitely want on the album.’”
The band did seem unwilling to give the song a proper chance, but I felt their resistance was less about the song and more about the way it was being presented. A big concern was that it was too schmaltzy, and that it would brand Billy a “wedding singer.” After hearing the first few takes, I was inclined to agree.
Part of the problem was that some people were comparing Billy to Elton John. Originally, the beat that the band was using on “Just the Way You Are” sounded much like Elton’s “Daniel,” or Stevie Wonder’s “You Are the Sunshine of My Life.” But I saw the possibilities of the song, and felt that if we found the right groove it could work.
Liberty DeVitto clearly remembers the controversy, and the moment that “Just the Way You Are” ’s fate was decided: “We all said, ‘We’re not playing that song.’ We were adamant about it. But Phil knew that it had something, and that all it needed was a tougher groove.
“I was in the control room arguing—and procrastinating—because I didn’t want to do the song. Phil—who never raised his voice or gave us a hard time—just listened. After a while he simply looked at me and said, ‘Enough of this bullshit. You guys can play whatever you want later, but I’m telling you to get out there and play this song, now!’ He said it jokingly, but I knew that he meant business.
“The cha-cha thing didn’t work, so when we started recording ‘Just the Way You Are,’ I played the loose bossa nova rhythm that I’d been playing all along. After a run-through, Phil came out of the booth. He walked over to me and quietly said, ‘Lib, I think I know what the problem is. That rhythm isn’t cutting it. This song needs a more sensuous feel.’
“Phil suggested trying a South American Byonne rhythm, and tapped out the pattern to show me what he meant. We tried it again, and this time I began dropping the bass drum out in certain places, and playing the tom-tom on the ‘and’ of four. The slight rest, and a little extra pressure on each kick of the bass drum pedal gave it extra emphasis. Using brushes on the snare gave it a very sexy sound.
“I always knew that Phil liked what I was doing when he started to move. From my perch behind the drums, I could see him in the control room, and when we started playing ‘Just the Way You Are’ with that sexy rhythm, he began swinging his arms and grooving to the beat. That was my indicator that ‘Just the Way You Are’ was headed in the right direction,” DeVitto concluded.
The new rhythmic pattern made a tremendous difference, and once the song began settling in, Billy and I realized that the sound of the piano in the first few bars sounded cold when juxtaposed with the melody’s exotic beat. Trading the standard piano for a Fender Rhodes keyboard with a Small Stone phaser gave the opening a warm, cozy touch.
But after making a rough mix, Billy and I sensed that something was still missing. The song needed more dimension, and my next suggestion unwittingly caused the first scrape between the band and me as their producer.
Although Richie Cannata’s tenor sax playing on “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” and “Only the Good Die Young” was dazzling, I felt that the solo in the bridge of “Just the Way You Are” needed the throaty texture of an alto sax.
When I think of alto saxophone I immediately think of Phil Woods—one of the top jazz session men in New York. And so I called on him, and his exceptional solo lent “Just the Way You Are” a sublimity that was greater than anything I had imagined.
My suggestion to use Phil Woods wasn’t meant to offend Richie Cannata or his playing. In this instance, I believed that we needed a specific sound that only a specialist such as Phil could provide, and as the final arbiter, I followed my instinct.
I’ve found that if you can justify the merits of doing something that will help make a stronger musical statement, everyone usually understands. I knew that Richie would unders
tand—and he did.
As Richie recalls:
“Phil had made an album with Phoebe Snow just before The Stranger, and he had used Phil Woods on her record. All of us (Michael Brecker, David Sanborn, and I) looked up to Phil Woods; he was the Charlie Parker of our era. If Phil (Ramone) had asked Michael Brecker or David Sanborn to play on ‘Just the Way You Are,’ I would have felt hurt. But it was a real honor to have Phil Woods play on our record. Since I had to play the part on the road, ‘Just the Way You Are’ forced me to learn to play alto sax.”
Despite all of the time we spent tweaking “Just the Way You Are,” Billy still wasn’t sure that he wanted it on the album—until the night Linda Ronstadt and Phoebe Snow visited the studio.
We were talking about the album, and I played “Just the Way You Are” for them. They were floored, and when Billy mentioned that he wanted to eliminate it, neither Linda nor Phoebe withheld their opinions. “Are you crazy?” they asked. “That’s the hit! You’re out of your minds if you don’t put it on the album.” Thank God we listened: “Just the Way You Are” won a Grammy for Song of the Year (1978). Next to “Piano Man” it’s Billy’s most requested tune, and at many a wedding it’s been played, I’m sure.
Two questions I’m frequently asked are, “Is there a secret to making a hit?” and “Do you follow a formula when making a record?”
There are no fail-safe recipes for creating a hit. And, the closest thing to a formula that I follow is making sure the artist’s voice—vocally or instrumentally—is recognized within the first fifteen seconds. Establishing their identity right up front is critical.
There are, however, three ingredients that all great records share: a good song, a talented artist, and distinctive production.
A song that touches you as a producer is liable to touch others, too, and if you’re blessed with having an artist who can put a magical spin on that song’s melody or lyric, you’re on the road to making a record that people will want to hear again and again.
