 |
 |
 |
|
|
 |
Dawwg House Studios
When Al and I first starting recording together all we had was a tin can attached to an answering machine by an eighteen inch piece of tarnished copper filament from an old Hoover.
Yeah. We had one piece of out board gear: a rubber, red toned, eraser that Al used to blot out bad singing by holding it gently against the tape and telling the artist. "I know you can do better than that."
Our first recordings sounded like two dozen cawing black birds circling a corn field. Like old ma
Fomine slapping the dust out of Old Spot’s dog blanket with a rolled up Sporting News.
But we had great songs. I gravitated to writing more.
Al, on the other hand, waded into the thick and confusing and incomprehensible world of recorded sound.
Seemed like every time I’d go over there he’d have some new set up. Got himself some sort of eight track cassette thing. Had about four pieces of out board gear.
Then all at once he had a full scale sixteen track board and had lights flashing and needles jumping and rhythm tracks sounding like music to my ears.
And all at once he was a bonafide engineer.
Except Al was an engineer that can sing better, play better, write better and drink more than any of the acts that come to his studio. It’s a great advantage for them. They hire an engineer for thirty five bucks an hour and they get a producer for free.
Al started getting so many clients parking space all at once was a premium. Then one night Al’s wife, Nikki, had to park all the way over on North Frederic and hoof it ten blocks home. That was the end of that.
So he moved out of his garage and got a space over there on Burbank Blvd. A sure enough full time, big time, fat sounding studio.
Lotta local talent came in. Al was cutting Tex-Mex and blues and R&B. Rock groups, female groups. Rockabilly. And he was getting better all the time, Al.
That place right there was the original Dawwg House.
"What the hell’s that?" It was a big green glowing computer screen and this tiny little control board blinking red and white and I felt like I’d stepped out of my car into a NASA weather tracking station." What’s that?"
"I’m switching over to Pro Tools."
Huh?
Al was sitting in his swivel chair. His Dodger cap was on back wards. His reading glasses were riding on his nose. He looked over them.
"Pro Tools. Gotta do it."
Oh boy. I approach new technology like a wolf sniffing a trap. I had avoided being dragged into the altogether, for real present, by kicking and fighting.
"Don’t I have a say in this, Son?"
"No."
"I figured."
Al was smiling and all those lights were blinking and I could see the past lose it’s grip and wave me a fond good by. Ok.
"How you gonna learn to work it?"
"Sit down. Turn some gizmos and see what happens."
And he did. Day and night. Then as god would have it, Sergio Ponzo stumbled into The House. Just arrived from someplace up in Canada. Looking for work. Just happened he was a genius working Pro Tools.
"You know if you route the frominater through the vespean and add your torplattors as they exit the bloomspander the computer can respond faster."
"Really?" Al.
One dawwg good. Two dawwgs better.
Now, in the new Dawwg House, Al’s got the brand new, high end Pro Tools and works the whole thing, mousing this and punching that and plugging this in here and flipping that switch there, with the knowledge and confidence of Van Cliburn playing Claire ‘de Lune.
"Can you get a little more of that whatchamacallit on the vocal."
Reverb. Boom. Done.
"And that flippadoodle you played going into the..."
"It’s gone." Boom.
"That back beat? Half a db up and add more of those compressionables."
Boom.
"And..."
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
"Well that’s that."
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
