Chapter Fourteen
I was so deeply involved in the making of Tapestry that it’s difficult for me to describe those happy, productive weeks in a logical or linear fashion. But these random scenes remain vibrantly alive for me in memory snapshots:
· James and Joni sitting on adjoining stools, their heads almost touching as they whisper to each other and share a private moment before Hank is ready for them to sing background harmonies on “Will You Love Me Tomorrow.”
Though James and Joni are singing on separate mics, their closeness is an almost physical presence. I can’t tell you what specific frequency it occupies, but the intimacy between them can still be heard and felt on this recording.
· Me at the microphone recording a scratch vocal with utter abandon, knowing I don’t have to strive for perfection.
After a basic track has been recorded, I quickly record a scratch or guide vocal so other musicians and vocalists can hear the song while overdubbing additional parts. Because I love singing over a great basic track my musicians have just delivered, the scratch vocal is often my most heartfelt performance, and just as often we can’t use it because I’m too hoarse from having sung the song multiple times while the musicians were learning it.
· The sight of my face in the glass between studio and booth reflecting my joy as I improvise layered vocals and keyboards over the basic track and lead vocal.
I have no idea what I’ll do on the next overdub until I sing along with what’s already there. Layer by layer, I weave an aural tapestry out of sound waves. Some of my favorite moments in recording are when I hear a perfect vocal or piano part come out of me with no plan or forethought. Even better: it was captured on tape!
· Having just finished a take, I’m in the dimly lit studio waiting for Lou to tell me what he thought of my performance.
I see Lou talking to Hank, but I can’t hear them through the triple glass window. The talkback button, controlled by Lou, is my lifeline.
· Me sitting on a high wooden bench in Studio B surrounded by a Hammond organ, a couple of electric keyboards, assorted microphones and cables, and the omnipresent candles and incense.
The dim light makes it difficult for me to see the keyboard controls as I search for the right sound to create a dark, spacious mood for the recording of “Tapestry.”
· Me fussing with my headphones to get them in the correct position so I can hear what Lou is hearing in the control room and also hear live in the room the string quartet playing the arrangement I wrote the night before.
As I prepare to conduct the quartet I worry that I won’t do it right, but the musicians encourage me to conduct with whatever movement comes naturally. “Don’t worry,” they say. “We’ll do the rest.” And they do.
· Lou, Hank, assistant engineer Norm Kinney, the musicians, and me crowded in the control room listening to the take that Hank has just recorded with such efficiency that not one creative moment was lost. I have no idea that Hank is building a sound that will endure through many decades.
Playback for a band can sometimes be fraught with “more me” syndrome, with each player wanting to hear more of his or her part. Lou wisely keeps my vocal down for the band playback so they can enjoy hearing themselves way up in the mix, but everyone knows that the final mix will have a more realistic balance, i.e., more me.
· Charlie in the studio punching in a bass note.
The technology to move a note up or down on a computer screen has yet to be invented, but with Sel-Sync it takes less than a minute to punch in the right note. A wry-smile truth among bass players is that the best take is invariably the one with the bass mistake. If the band achieves a good performance without a bass mistake, we know we haven’t peaked yet.
· Lou quietly making suggestions, keeping the process going, never allowing anything to compromise the integrity of a song or the relatively simple presentation that will become a hallmark of my work.
· My daughters and their friends flowing in and out of our sessions in jeans or long dresses with their hair pulled up in flowered headbands.
The only time Louise and Sherry weren’t allowed in the studio was when the RECORD light was on. Otherwise they and their friends wandered in and out at will. Sometimes, when I had to work at night, Sherry or Louise, at home with Willa Mae, would call to ask if they could pleeeeeease do their homework in the morning.
“No,” I’d say. “You need to do it tonight!”
Other times—inconsistent mom that I was—I’d say, “All right. Just don’t forget to set your alarm!”
Sometimes the girls needed me to settle a dispute about who left whose sweater crumpled in a ball at the bottom of their closet.
“No, Mom, it can’t wait. We need you to deal with this now!”
“I don’t care whose sweater it is,” I said, channeling King Solomon. “You pick it up, your sister can hang it up, and then both of you go finish your homework!”
I may have been a professional songwriter and recording artist in the hallowed halls of A&M Studios, but to my daughters I was the homework police.