Essay - "The
Recording Process: A Labor of Love" - February, 1997
By Colin Miller
Like the cutest of puppies and kittens, the
vast rewards of high fidelity audio drag with them a variable sum
of shed fur, blood sucking parasites, and unpleasant odors.
Besides the associated cost of quality playback equipment, the
dizzying hype of occasionally misleading marketing campaigns, and
the task of simply putting aside the time to sneak inside our
fragile cove of auditory bliss, there remains one small, but
sturdy, immutable catch. Unless some genius has found a way to
get around the laws of entropy, (randomization of energy, noise,
heat death of the universe at an estimated 4 Kelvin, etc.,)
you're not going to truly improve the original source, i.e.,
recording, to anything near its full potential. You can try. You
can redo the EQ, saturate it with euphonic distortions via
whatever pleases you, add more compression, even dynamically
expand it, but it's all plastic surgery and eventually your
adorable cherub will end up a worn out Hollywood has-been.
Granted, as a consumer, these ointments are the limit of our
soothing abilities for any given piece of software. But, although
it may perhaps serve well as a bandage, it doesn't serve our
ultimate purpose - the best sound possible. It must sway, it must
convey, lift, entice, and satisfy. I'm not speaking merely of
interpretive preference. I refer to the all too occurring less
than adequate recording. Salt the steak every shake you like, but
rotten meat will remain rancid no matter what the spice, until it
dissolves by natural processes into dirt. Then it's compost. Who,
besides worms, (or your neighbor's misguided child) eats compost?
For illustration, Bjork's last album, "Post", tickles
my occasional whiskers when I can bear it. I adore the musical
content, but the recording is, ummmm... awful. One of the worst
vocal microphone jobs ever, a cross between gasping, rasping, and
piercing sibilants as if they wanted to record her tonsils but
scraped against the teeth instead. The subsequent mixing of the
album exposes a hint of what might have been effort, but didn't
reach fruition for reasons I can only speculate. Perhaps the
captain of the mixing console had a really horrible cold. Maybe a
bad recording is an intentional artistic statement. Sure,
whatever. I can't do anything about it.
On the other side of the seesaw, my father once bought me an
album of Celtic folk music from one of those knickknack-selling
nature stores. It didn't wear the badge of any recording company
I recognized, nor had I any interest in Celtic music, but the
recording quality surprised me to the breadth that I gave the
material half a miserable chance and I grew to like it, a lot.
Consider my horizons expanded. So how is it, though, that a major
recording studio with mucho buckaroos ejects such flotsam while
those who hawk their wares as yuppie background music produce
something really excellent? One could propose more than a few
reasons why, but I think one will do in general. It's difficult
to produce a good recording.
While the home enthusiast must find a suitable location for his
speakers in relation to the couch, the recording engineer butts
his head with and sometimes against what can seem at times like
celestial variables. Some get tired of the battle and figure that
it doesn't matter since most playback will occur on a dinky boom
box. Some can't differentiate. A minority of these professionals,
more skilled because of talent, training, luck, and/or old
fashioned perseverance, hammer through obstacles to construct an
enjoyable rendition of whichever material interests our bilateral
auditory organs. What's so hard about recording? Everything. Not
that I'm an expert on the topic, but it interests me. I got
pulled in by my ears at the consumer end out of frustration. As I
improved audio equipment in my own system, it became annoyingly
lucid that my the quality of my CD's stumbled unpredictably from
label to label, artist to artist, especially in popular music.
This frustration luckily grew a handle after meeting with Andor
Izsak, a fellow audio nut who runs a small recording studio,
Unreel Productions, out of San Mateo, California. Thanks to some
discussion about fundamental recording techniques and their
audible effects, and playtime with various recording tools, I
realized that blaming my home equipment, and drastically running
from different technologies to others to accommodate
unpredictably imperfect recordings would quickly drive me
penniless, if not batty, first.
Andor Izsak began dabbling in recording on his own as a DJ in
Hungary while also experimenting with home audio projects of his
own. "I've made both tube and solid state amps based on
schematics published by our (Hungarian) HiFi magazines, modified
speakers, turntables, experimented with cable insulation, and so
on. In Hungary, we couldn't get most of the stuff you have in
America, and what we could get was damned expensive, so I got the
best stuff that I could get and made it as good as it could be.
My father was an engineer for the government, so he got me
military spec components." After arriving in the United
States, he did his research and carefully selected some of the
best values in professional gear for under five figures - well
chosen, but cheap by professional standards where a microphone
can set one back more than many persons' yearly salary. After
hearing the quality of work on projects which encompass many
popular styles, as well as acoustical instruments and small
groups of Hungarian folk musicians, it dawned on me that good
equipment is beneficial, but it's only the platform. The
recording engineer must carefully work his/her way through dials
and knobs galore, knowing that any misadjustment might cause an
irreversible detriment. Let's take a quick hypothetical ride with
Mr. Engineer and start at a hypothetical beginning.
Although the electrical path usually begins at the wall socket,
the musical signal just as usually begins with an artist. This is
as critically important as it is ridiculously obvious. An artist,
in all cases I've known of, is a life form, and most life forms
are sensitive to their environment. Tom, a rather massive
musician who favors acoustical guitar once explained, "As
soon as that record button is pushed, I freeze up." Tom, a
not so hypothetical musician, has a very real problem, and the
recording engineer must respond by becoming more than an
engineer. One of my first lessons in recording techniques with
Andor involved learning to talk to the musician, and more
importantly, listening to him, making it obvious that one is
doing so. "Are you feeling comfortable? Can I get you
anything, a glass of water, perhaps? Is the room temperature all
right?"
An engineer, while working with the artist, must coax forth a
worthwhile performance from the relocated performer in an
unnatural environment. And which unnatural environment is that?
Take your pick. The recording studio provides the versatility
made possible by DSP (Digital Signal Processing) technologies to
create artificial reflections and reverberations, in addition to
other sonic effects, with as many options as algorithms. A real
world venue, however, such as a local concert hall, relieves the
engineer of DSP decisions, but includes room reflections of that
hall, club, or garage, in the final product whether desired or
not. Sometimes the best combination is a mixture of the two. In
fact, many of the algorithms found in professional DSP processors
are modeled after real world locations. Either way, the sound of
the room, comprised of reflections and subsequent reverberations,
provides dimensionality for the recorded source. It is essential
that the engineer picks an appropriate acoustical environment,
real or artificial, and balances between the sound of the chosen
venue and the source so that they compliment and highlight each
other. Mistaking novelty for artistic judgment in either
direction of the application can leave the impression of a dry
dictation machine or a clumsy weekend bootleg project.
If you choose the real venue, once you've selected the particular
location, all you can do is move on, and if the DSP won you over,
you've got experimenting to do later. Can we record now? Sure,
but with what? Unless we're using electronic instruments, we need
to transfer pressure waves into an electrical signal. Microphones
fit the parameter quite well. Which kind? How many? Where will
you position them, and at what angles? Condenser or dynamic,
which kind of directional patterns, which associated pre-amps to
provide gain, and how will you set those? Microphone selection
and placement affects the sound as much as the instrument, and
should be given equal attention.
Once you get your signal onto the recording medium with a
designated track, the mixing board, the professional version of a
control amplifier or "pre-amp", will allow you to
enhance or ruin your work in progress. Besides providing the
route for microphones and DSP processors, the mixing console ties
together compressors, saturators, equalizers, noise gates, level
and panning controls, midi devices, other instruments, and even
computers. We could get into the particular functions of each,
but the point is that with all these tools and options available,
the engineer has numerous potential recordings of a single
performance, and every option introduces a potential screw-up. If
you're fortuitous enough to actually find recordings done without
any identifiable mistakes, it came from a very competent, or very
lucky engineer.
At first I wondered how a professional recording engineer could
let a mistake pass through the recording process without
correction. There are a few valid reasons, but the most
applicable is time. It is finite, and so is the money that the
producer will shell out for a project which may or may not prove
profitable. After all the clams come home to roost, the recording
industry is big business. It takes that precious time to reap a
good performance which may never surface again, and it takes time
to evaluate and adjust all those critical options which can
always go wrong. In the end, like most commissioned works of art,
there is compromise. The skill of the engineer lies in maximizing
the allotted resources to minimize that compromise. If given more
freedom and the motivation, most experienced engineers could
deliver results vastly superior to the common fodder. Then again,
there are always exceptions.
In the aforementioned album "Post" by Bjork, the
recording was so horrendous, I wonder if the engineers were even
listening to it. On the fourth track, "It's Oh So
Quiet," I clearly hear a ground loop hum. It's not so quiet.
In fact, it's irritating. I don't believe that they heard it, and
I don't believe that they're deaf. Unfortunately, and ironically,
industry standards for monitoring equipment, especially in
pop/rock circles, do not significantly surpass, if at all, the
consumer mid-fi market, let alone the high-end. Thus, the poor
dedicated audiophile, in all anxiousness, is doomed to experience
ten fold the blunders of the more ignorant recording
professionals.
Sure, while the high-end is full of nonsense and voodoo
marketing, specialist audiophile engineers like Gabe Weiner have
setups most coveting audiophiles would shed blood for. Dolby
Labs, Lucasfilms, and Tom Jung of DMP use very competent gear.
There is good monitoring equipment available in the professional
market. Genelec powered speakers and Hafler amplifiers come to
mind, but many choose not to use these because of unwritten
industry standards. In an issue of Mix magazine that I can't seem
to dig up for reference, an interviewer asked award winning
recording engineers about their favorite monitors. One, who
recorded primarily classical music, cited B&W 801's and
Martin Logan electrostatic panels, generally respected as fairly
accurate and revealing transducers. However, the majority chose a
popular professional near field monitor, to be left unnamed, that
sells for roughly $300. The consumer version, almost identical in
response, can't even compete with many popular speakers on the
consumer market for the same price. The first time I heard them
in a studio I thought out quite loudly, "How do you know
what you're doing?" The attending engineer replied, "We
use the Sennheiser 580s or the NS-1000s. These are just to hear
what it will sound like in 90% of the other studios out
there." One could argue that a recording should sound good
on a cheap boom box. I would argue that it can't, and if you're
listening to music on an appliance purchased from a drug store,
you probably won't expect it to, so why introduce yet another
compromise?
Maybe I'm just picking at straws. As one of those award winning
engineers stated in his interview, summarized as per memory but
true in effect, "It's not what comes out of the speakers
that matters. It's what goes in that counts." Maybe so, but
how could he tell what went in?
Colin Miller
© Copyright 1995, 1996, 1997
Secrets of Home Theater & High Fidelity
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