Ringo 021: Sonic Horticulture

or, forty years and closer

Hi, friends! I'm Michael Donaldson, and this is my weekly newsletter about music-listening, music-making, and whatever else comes to mind. And my mind is frazzled, so hold tight.

As these days run together, it seems like it's getting harder and harder to concentrate. Are you experiencing this, too? No doubt you've heard things are intense and scary here in Florida. It's tough keeping the brain on track. Thank goodness I have this newsletter (and its deadline) to pull me back to earth. And, always, thank you for reading and encouraging its regular transmission.

These newsletters are always about music, but this one seems more music-focused than ever. Music's really helping us keep it together, isn't it? So, you'll find a lot of music recommendations in this episode. I've even filled my opening ramble about music producers with recommendations (definitely check out Seamonsters if you've never heard it).

And then there's this episode's theme song. When I record these songs, I'm following random guideposts set by a series of self-imposed rules. The tempo, initial sounds, and title are all determined by these rules, and I go from there. And this time, I arrived at a doozy — a dark and hypnotic exercise that's called "Moorthi." The randomness only gave me drums and percussion to work with, alongside a languid tempo of 65 BPM. Hannett was on the mind (as you'll see in a bit), so the central drum part has a watery spring reverb on top. Those elements inspired all the other textures, and, about 90 minutes later, I've got this lumbering beast. I'd suggest waiting to listen after the sun drops. Eerie stuff.

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I was emailing back-and-forth with a friend from my teenage years, reminiscing about the 'cool' mall record shop (called Newsom's) in Alexandria, LA. My friend asked if I remembered any vinyl purchases from the store's small 'import bin.' I said that I don't think I was buying vinyl then. It wasn't until I was about 16 and got a job at a record store in a different mall that I began my vinyl collecting. I finally had some disposable income. 

But the more I think about it, that might not be true. There was one record I now recall buying from Newsom's imports selection: Joy Division's Closer. This would have been the mid-80s, and I bought it without hearing anything from the band. I'm sure I knew the fables — and about Ian Curtis — and that this record was supposed to be required listening. I'm not sure I connected the album to those first New Order records I saw a few years earlier. Info was scarce in Central Louisiana.

I didn't like the record at first. I think Curtis's voice threw me off as I hadn't heard anything like him before. But, as one did after spending valuable lunch money on a record, I played Closer repeatedly and got inside of it. The roomy and doomy production was particularly intriguing. "Isolation" tripped me out, with its mechanical drums, bizarre synth line, and strangely effected (and affected) vocal. The album's reverb-created spaces drew me in — I could close my eyes and imagine the dark, dripping wet chamber where this music lived. I even recorded my own version of "Heart and Soul" on my Tascam 4-track to understand better what was going on in that song. (A tip for budding music producers: re-recording someone else's song, replicating sound the best you can, is an excellent exercise for learning how music is made.)

At the time, my listening obsessions immersed me in two opposing poles of record production. On one side, there was the set-up-the-mics-and-go aesthetic of early albums on California's SST label — the producer was often this guy who only went by Spot. And then, way out there on the other side, I was obsessed with the heavy-handed sonic horticulture of Trevor Horn. I'd say that listening to records Horn worked on made me aware for the first time of 'the producer.' Horn’s contributions in the studio were not what you'd call 'transparent.' That gave me the context to hear how much the studio influenced Welcome To The Pleasure Dome versus the role the studio played on Zen Arcade. 

Closer was something different. It's tempting to say the style of production was somewhere in-between Spot and Horn, but Closer's sound really is in its own orbit. And, as you probably know, the person responsible for producing Closer was the legendary Martin Hannett.

Hannett was the in-house producer for Factory Records (and quarter partner in the label). The artistic-minded Factory gave Hannett lots of room to experiment. With the then recently released AMS 1580 digital delay in tow, the producer had free rein to create an exotic noise. This opportunity developed into what we now call a 'signature sound,' mocked by Jello Biafra, who opened a Dead Kennedys single in 1981 with the words, "Overproduced by Martin Hannett."

Closer was released 40 years ago this weekend. An in-depth article on the album in The Quietus examined its creation and fall-out. There's a moment in the piece that has me thinking this week about the producer's role. Peter Hook (Joy Division/New Order bass wrangler) notes that Hannett single-handedly changed the band's sound from behind the mixing desk. The band members were initially non·plussed. As The Quietus article says, "Hook just wanted Joy Division to sound more like The Clash, 'which just goes to show you can never trust a fucking musician even to be a judge of his own music.'"

The '80s popularized the producer as personality, someone unconnected to the band who shapes and changes that band's sound. And that producer's distinctive sound carries from project to project. We can trace forebears — Phil Spector comes to mind, but as a principal songwriter, it's hard to argue he altered the sound of the acts he worked with. The Beatles and The Beach Boys were pioneering in audio experimentation, but you can't say they compromised their sonic intentions to an outside personality. Perhaps one of the first 'personality producers' was Conny Plank — there was an identifiable texture and philosophy that came out of Plank's farm-house studio. And Eno immediately comes up for his contributions to the Berlin Trilogy, though he worked with Bowie as a collaborator and not the producer. This video sheds some light on that.

Then Plank and Eno came together for the sessions of Devo's debut album. Produced by Eno at Plank's farm (with Plank engineering), the album turned into a tussle between band and producer. As Devo's Mark Mothersbaugh relates:

When we worked with people like Brian Eno, we were really protective of our stuff. I remember being over at the studio and we'd all be sitting there listening to a mix. Brian would push a couple of faders up - things he'd recorded on his synths or extra singing. We'd stand there and everybody would be looking forward like everybody does when they're listening to a mix, you know. Then, one of us would sort of reach over and pull the Eno faders back, and he'd look over and noticed that we'd just [removed him].

Some band-producer relationships last over multiple albums, with the producer given #th member status. And, other times, the producer is seen as an interloper, and things get rocky. Most of the time, the producer is unknown in the scheme of things, staying out of the way with no danger of overshadowing the band or the recordings. Then there's the curious position of Steve Albini, who adamantly wants the world to see him as nothing more than a hired gun. He often refuses the title of 'producer,' preferring 'recording engineer' (his album credit is usually "Recorded by Steve Albini"). His ethos in the studio is closer to Spot's — set up the mics and roll tape. But Albini's name does bring an assumption to a project, whether he likes it or not. And there is a sound. It's not hard to hear Albini as the thread sonically tying together The Wedding Present's Seamonsters and The Pixies' Surfer Rosa. 

After becoming aware of people like Martin Hannett and Trevor Horn, my teenaged musical goal changed from famous synth-player to hot-shot record producer. (I talk about that a little in this podcast.) I had a romantic notion of showing up at studios around the world and manipulating bands' recordings with my mobile rack of reverbs and delays. Or better yet, I'd have a secret lair out in the countryside (similar to Conny Plank, though I didn't know who he was at the time), and the bands would have to come to me — or would want to go to me. What an existence! It was only after reading Richard Burgess's The Art of Music Production that I learned producers also had responsibilities as project managers, accountants, and band therapists. That removed the luster a bit. 

I wonder if the romantic idea of the music producer is old-fashioned, with the ‘80s as the heyday. The technology has put control into bands and artists' hands, and producing an album yourself is the norm, not the exception. And now, with lockdown in effect, more prominent artists who usually go to studios with producers on hand are self-producing on home set-ups. Will they ever go back?

It's a good thing when the artist is in control of her creative output. But I can't help but think that we're missing out on something when there's not a guiding third party. As Peter Hook said, the musician is not always the best judge of his music (and I agree from personal experience), and outside input — whether from a collaborative producer or an invested A&R person — is valuable.

I'd love to see a market for freelance A&R people – for lack of a better title – hired by a self-produced/self-released band to guide an album project from an unbiased perch. Artists can get lost inside their heads, and it's useful for someone to shake them out of that. I'm not proposing bands should look for their own Martin Hannett. But getting outside encouragement to do better than imitating The Clash could result in something people will still talk about 40 years on.

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BONUS: Here’s a wonderful video of Martin Hannett (and Tony Wilson) in action:

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EDGING →

• I discovered the newsletter (and playlist) Love Will Save The Day, and enjoyed Jed Hallam's account of his introduction and education to the genre and concept of Afrofuturism. Related, The Quietus published an excellent 'starter's guide' to the discography of Sun Ra. Also related — Strut has announced Swirling, the first new album in twenty years from the Sun Ra Arkestra. 

• There's a lovely new album of piano music from Laaraji. I also like his optimism in this profile in The Washington Post. He describes The Strange Times as "a chill-down period to fantasize, to open, and to let a vision come through." I'm hoping to see it that way eventually.

• A Guide to the Birdsong of Mexico, Central America and the Caribbean samples endangered birds and sticks them in a pleasant electronic music context. Each song is named after a corresponding bird, with some opting for total sonic manipulation while others let the birds sing in the background. The album makes for relaxing listening, especially if you're missing a wander through the great outdoors. 

• Veteran electronic music experimenter Scanner has a cool new album — titled An Ascent — and he offers a fascinating account of its origin on his blog. It's one of the many albums directly inspired by lockdown and COVID-isolation. All of the music made during this time will become historically important, decoding our artists' inner lives as we live through this time of "chaos and stagnation" (to quote the Laaraji article above).

• Harpist Mary Lattimore's next album is a collaboration with Slowdive's Neil Halstead. As I said in my short Bandcamp review, it's "surprising, maybe even unlikely, but, judging by the unrivaled beauty of 'Sometimes He's In My Dreams,' it's also necessary."

• An old DJ mix I recorded live in 1998 popped up this week. The only previous time I heard this was while it was being recorded. I had fun remembering back to this time when the traveling DJ thing was new for me and I was still figuring out my ‘style.’ In 1998 that style apparently included mixing in dialogue from Battlestar Galactica. Interesting tidbit: there are two remixes of mine in this mix, played off dubplate, that have never been released.

• Need more? Here's the latest list of the music that I listened to this week.

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That’s a load of recommendations to explore so I'll leave you to it. I hope you enjoyed this episode of Ringo Dreams of Lawn Care as much as I enjoyed putting it together. Let's cross our fingers, channel some of Laaraji's positive vibes, and see what this week brings. Sound good? As always, reach out if you have any questions, comments, or have any music recommendations of your own. Hang in there, stay safe with face mask close at hand, and I'll see you next week. 🚀

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btw — I'm Michael Donaldson and you can read more about who I am and what I do here.

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