Three Decisions (Part 1)

In the previous entry, dated November 8, 2013 and entitled Real Stereo, loudness wars and a fork in the road, I recalled the advent of the Loudness Wars and the fact that upon reflection as to my reasons for becoming a professional audio engineer, I was clear that the weaponizing of sound and music was not among my goals.  Another realization that crystallized around the same time was that 90-95% (or more) of any recording’s ultimate sound quality has already been determined by the time the signals are leaving the microphones.

As I planned my future, I made three decisions.  The first was that I would only accept mastering clients whose goals were quality oriented rather than loudness oriented.  Next, rather than just come in on a recording project for the last stage of production (which mastering is), I wanted to work on the 95% or more that was the determination of the signals leaving the microphones—I wanted to do original recordings, in real stereo.  To this end, it was time to start a label.  The third decision was to design and build my own work place, with my own gear, so there would no longer be any need to rent time in other studios or to borrow or rent gear for recording sessions.

The second decision (making real stereo recordings) really led to the third (building a room) because in order to make the type of no-compromise recordings in which I was interested, I needed a room I trusted absolutely, that I would have access to any time I desired and which was outfitted with the type of gear I felt necessary in order to make and evaluate those uncompromised recordings.  Since my preferred spaces for making recordings are real performance spaces, those in which a given type of music would be best served, such as auditoriums, churches, galleries, etc., my own room would be used for post-production, primarily editing and mastering.

Around the same time all this planning and deciding was occurring but before it was put into effect, I received a message that was to mark the beginning of a treasured friendship and a series of very rewarding musical and sonic collaborations, taking me into the creation of my own work space, the start of the record label, and beyond.  The message asked if I was the Barry Diament who had remastered the Bob Marley & The Wailers catalog for CD release several years earlier.  The sender was working on a reggae album and was inquiring about having me master it.  I responded that I did indeed remaster that catalog and we ended up booking the mastering session, which was to occur at a local studio with monitoring I trusted.

As the session neared, I came to learn more about my new client and soon to be dear friend, Art Halperin.  It turned out the esteemed record producer and talent scout John Hammond had signed Art a few years earlier, as the first artist scheduled to record for his Hammond/CBS Records.  (Hammond signed a few other talented artists over the years, including Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Aretha Franklin, Billie Holiday, Bruce Springsteen and Stevie Ray Vaughn to name but a few.)  Art completed a 10-song album for the label but with Hammond’s passing, the project was not released.

Even before I heard the music, I knew I liked Art.  I remember the mastering session on the day we first met in person.  As all was being prepared and we got ready to do some serious listening, Art asked me how much consideration I give to level when mastering an album.  (This was prior to the days when I got any concerns about level out of the way before taking on a new job.)  I looked at Art and said “None whatsoever.”  I wondered if the session might end then and there.  But Art understood.  And he stayed.

Relative levels between tracks would be adjusted if necessary, in order for each song to flow into the next, without the listener having to make any volume adjustments.  Once the entire program was cohesive with itself, final level is set based on the loudest part of the program.  Since musical dynamics were going to be left intact, with no compression applied, all that needed to be done was to ensure the overall level was set so that the loudest part took maximum advantage of the medium.  The rest would fall into place naturally.  And it did.

Like many musicians, Art had his own recording studio and was very interested in the process of record making.  After that initial mastering session, he and I were to have many conversations about recording and about the approach I had become increasingly attracted to.  The fact that Art often played more than one instrument or sang more than one vocal part on his own recordings led me to consider how the “direct to stereo” technique I favored could be applied while still allowing for the convenience of overdubbing multiple musical parts.  (For more on this, see Recording in Stereo (Part 2).)  This worked out so well, it has become Art’s preferred method for the projects he has recorded in his studio since then.

Through all of these discussions, I talked about wanting to apply what I’d learned from my microphone experiments to making a recording of pop music using techniques that had previously only been considered for classical music.  There would be no opportunity for overdubs, no “punch ins” to fix mistakes, no post-production mix.  The musicians would stand virtually naked before the microphones, which would capture them as they sound for real.  Art immediately expressed interest in doing this with his band.  Of course we needed to find a space in which to record, a space that would provide the right supporting acoustic for the music and instrumentation.  Art said he knew of such a place too.

Plans were coming together for the recording project.  This would also be the first using the new gear and the first to be mastered in the new room I’d set up.  How far the gear had come since the original Sony system, which required a rack the size of a refrigerator, not to mention a mortgage.  A top grade recording and mastering system would now reside in a laptop computer, with one external interface box.  It was small enough and light enough to fit in a daypack for transport to remote recording sessions and was sonically orders of magnitude beyond the old system.

The most important part of the room, as it has always been for me, is the monitoring.  For the room to be trustworthy, the monitoring must be able to “get out of the way” and provide access to the recording itself.  Without this, nothing else really matters as the engineer would be left guessing — as I found the case to be with most studios and control rooms I’d worked in, visited or read about.  To be clear, by “monitoring” I refer not just to the speakers themselves (i.e., the brand and model) but to the implementation of the entire monitoring system: where the speakers are placed in the room, where the listening position is placed in the room, where everything else is placed in the room (only after the first two have been properly determined), the acoustic treatment of the room, and the ancillary gear, from power supplies to cables.  (For more about the monitoring, see Setting up your monitoring environment.)

I’d been very fortunate to hear some very capable loudspeaker designs over the years.  Among my favorites by far are Jim Winey’s designs from Magnepan.  The “Maggies”, as aficionados call them, are not like typical “cones in a box” speakers in that there are no cones and no box.  Most importantly, I find they have a unique ability to sound, not like “good speakers” but like music itself.  (This is much more easily experienced than communicated with words.)  Properly set up, Maggies excel at “getting out of the way”, a characteristic I find critical if one seeks to hear past the system and gain access to the sound of the recording itself.

Years earlier and much to my surprise, I’d heard how much the cables connecting audio gear can affect system performance.  In selecting gear for the new room, I spent many months listening to a number of top contenders for interconnects and loudspeaker cables.  (I find it interesting that cables are still the subject of much debate in the audio world.  I have yet to hear two that sound the same to me.)  Of all the cables I listened to, several of the products from Nordost consistently stood out as I brought them back in to compare against others.  With many types of audio products, certain designs are made to have a certain “sound” or color.  I was looking for a design that did not exhibit this sort of personality.  I wanted one that revealed just how different sounding every recording is from every other recording.

Uncolored devices reveal the many differences from recording to recording.  When different recordings have commonalities in the sound, for example a certain character in one part of the frequency spectrum, it is safe to assume one is hearing a coloration in one or more components of the playback chain.  Colorations reduce the inherent differences between recordings.

With the Nordost cables in the system, I felt confident I was able to hear past them, that they were merely passing the signal from one component to the next without editorializing.  (Interestingly, they replaced cables that cost three times their price.)  The combination of Nordost cables with Magnepan speakers has proven a magical one — two product lines that are extraordinary at getting out of the way, thereby providing unimpeded access to the recording.  For listening, this allows the qualities of a recording to shine at their best.  For recording and mastering work, this is crucial as it makes the difference between guessing how a recording sounds and knowing.

The last major hardware piece of the puzzle is the interface between the computer and the audio system.  In the simplest terms, during recording, the interface takes the analog microphone signals and converts them to digital, feeding the signals to the recording software on the computer.  During playback (for work in the studio as well as for just listening), the interface takes the digital signals from the computer, converts them to analog and feeds them to the monitor amplifiers for the loudspeakers.  While these are often split into separate jobs accomplished by separate pieces of gear, a chance question from an acquaintance led to a fortuitous discovery.  One day, a musician I knew asked me if I’d ever heard of Spectrafoo.  I told him I had not but the odd name made me curious enough to look it up.  What I found was a software tool for sonic analysis like no other I’d heard of before or since.  But perhaps more significantly, I got turned on to the company that made it, Metric Halo.

It turned out that in addition to their software, Metric Halo also made some very interesting hardware.  Their “mobile i/o” (or MIO) interfaces provided exactly what I’d been looking for in terms of a very high quality, yet portable unit that would serve as remote recording “studio” for recording sessions and as central hub of my room.  Actually, I’d already selected a competing interface that had great specifications and great reviews.  I set up a comparative listen and it was all over — I was ordering an MIO.

To complete the remote recording package, it was time to get my own microphones.  I chose a matched pair of Earthworks QTC-1s (now called QTC-40), the first mics I’d ever heard that made my previous favorites, the B&Ks, sound a bit colored by comparison.  The QTC-1s are outstanding at capturing the sounds that occur in their presence.

So far the results of the three decisions I’d made were taking shape nicely.  I felt liberated from mastering clients who sought quantity over quality, plans were in place for making the type of recordings I really wanted to make, and a studio of my own was now a reality.  Now, to put those recording ideas into practice.  Art and I planned the next steps.

Digital grows and first experiments in stereo

When I first heard of digital audio, it seemed full of excitement and promise, with claims of perfect sound, perfect copies and a noiseless medium that was indestructible.  When I first experienced the subject of all these claims, I heard pain-inducing sound, questionable copies, new forms of noise and found the media more than a little bit fragile.

The earliest digital systems did well in the published laboratory measurements.  Frequency response was flat, without the “head bump” in the bass or the diminishing energy at either end of the spectrum suffered by analog tape.  Measurements of gross speed inaccuracy showed there wasn’t any.  Signal-to-noise ratio measurements also revealed devices capable of hiss-free recordings.  But when one sat down to listen to the recordings created with these digital systems, they just didn’t sound very good.

The news got better as some designers who heard the flaws in the technology began to study and address its weaknesses.  The devices used to convert signals from analog to digital got better, as did those used to convert digital audio back to an analog signal for playback.  While it had the edge in terms of measured response, there was still a very long way to go before the sound of digital was going to be competitive with analog.  One of the major stepping stones on that road to progress was the personal computer, which was just coming into popular use at the time.  In the second half of the ‘80s, I was introduced to one of the first computer-based digital audio systems.  Where the first digital editing systems I’d seen seemed like futuristic machines allowing edits I couldn’t have imagined doing with the razor blade and Edit-All bar from the analog tape days, the computer-based system, called a digital audio workstation (or DAW) took the concept an order of magnitude further.  Access was fully random and instantaneous.  No more having to first record everything prior to an edit point because the old system required masters to be assembled in sequence.  No more waiting for tape to wind to a specific place to hear a specific passage.  The entire program (or a tiny fraction of a second of that program) could be viewed on screen at once.  A click of the mouse was all that was required to hear any part of that program instantly.  All sorts of sonic adjustments could be made that could not be made before, at a level of detail unattainable in the past.

Another promise of the digital audio workstation was something I had long looked forward to, which was the elimination of tape.  While it had served well as an analog medium, my experience with tape for digital audio was that it was quite fragile.  A particle of dust was all it took for playback to suffer a “dropout”, a momentary muting of the audio.  Digital recordings on tape didn’t age well either, as our digital tape analyzers confirmed with significantly increased incidence of the digital system’s error correction coming into play as a tape got older.  Some tape formats, like the miniscule DAT (Digital Audio Tape, a digital audio cassette of sorts) used tape so thin and so fragile it was not uncommon for 6-month old DATs to no longer be playable, the audio devolving from music into something more closely resembling a fax transmission.  The digital audio workstation had an accessory disc recorder, which recorded on blank discs, recordable CDs (or CD-R).  The first blank discs I saw sold for $75 each and the failure rate (the creation of “coasters”) was high.  How far we’ve come since then, with very high reliability, no-failure discs selling for 35 cents apiece!

At this point in my experience, however, I got suspicious.  I’d been there before with new technologies offering undeniable improvements in certain aspects of the quality or in certain aspects of the mechanical operations required to capture audio and turn it into a finished recording for the listener.  There was always that little detail though:  the sound.  Almost a faux pas to mention it in some circles but it is what all this is about, isn’t it?  So I wanted a real demo of this new computerized system.  I wanted to hear what happened to audio that passed through it.  I wanted to compare a CD-R made on one of these systems with the signal used to burn that disc.

While all these developments were occurring, I had been engaged in a related pursuit with my early experiments in recording in stereo.  I had learned and used the techniques common to most studio practices where multiple microphones were deployed to capture multiple sounds which were later combined during the mix down to (the 2-channel, dual mono result that is commonly but erroneously referred to as) “stereo”.  As interesting as this was and as interested as I was in honing the techniques in order to create something more convincing—something that sounded “in here” (in the control room) more like it sounded “out there” (in the studio with the musicians), I found the idea of a much simpler approach even more intriguing.  I began to experiment with a more first principles strategy, questioning every single aspect of record making, every single component of the process and every single decision involved.  This was the beginning of what I later came to think of as “The Questions”.  These are questions that need to be asked if one is ever to arrive at answers. They are the questions I’d never seen mentioned in any of the books on recording I’d ever read or in any of the magazines.  They are the questions I was never taught to ask when I was an assistant engineer, the questions that students in today’s “audio engineering” schools never encounter.  How fortunate I was that it ultimately occurred to me to ask them.

The questions are in fact, simple; so simple, they and the answers they might lead to tend to get overlooked:
“Why this microphone?
“What results do I expect from selecting this microphone?”
“What results of selecting this microphone might occur which I do not expect?”
“Why place it here?”
“What results do I expect from placing this microphone here?”
“What results of placing this microphone here might occur which I do not expect?”
“Why am I turning this particular knob to adjust the sound?”
“What did I do wrong in a previous step that I believe will be remedied by turning this knob?”
“What results might occur which I do not expect?”

There are an infinite number of questions, as many as there are decisions to be made in the process of making a record, from conception to manufacturing the finished product.  As I set out to find the questions and hopefully some answers to same, I started making recordings in an entirely different fashion.  Rather than layering multiple recordings, each picked up with a large number of microphones, I sought to capture real performances in a single shot, recording “live” (for the microphones), using only as many microphones as there would be playback channels.  In the case of stereo, that meant only two microphones.  (I’ve developed the technique since then to allow layered recording, i.e., overdubbing, where players do not all have to perform at the same time or where a musician or vocalist can perform more than one part.  However, I became increasingly taken with the idea of capturing real performances in real stereo.)

The first tests were solo piano recordings and these provided a great deal of education in terms of capturing what I’d hoped to capture but even more regarding certain aspects of the results that I did not expect.  For all of these tests, with the goal of maximum fidelity in mind, I was using microphones more commonly employed for critical measurements of sound than in making actual music recordings, where microphones with more pronounced sonic character were (and remain) much more the rule.  These were the Danish microphones from Brüel & Kjaer (B&K, now Danish Pro Audio or DPA), with relatively small diaphragms compared to the large diaphragm mics generally used to record music.  The B&Ks were also omnidirectional microphones—they “heard” sounds from all directions—whereas most studio mics have a more directional pickup tending to focus on what is directly in front of them.  (This most common, front-hearing type of microphone directivity is called “cardioid” because of the vaguely heart-shaped laboratory representation of how it “hears”)  Over time, I came to believe that all microphones are in fact omnidirectional but some (the sort called “directional” ) apply more color—are less transparent—to off-axis sounds, those coming from the sides or behind them.  True omnis are more neutral in terms of timbre than their directional counterparts.  They’re better at getting out of the way.  (Of course, not all recordists want their gear to get out of the way.  What is “good” depends entirely on the results one seeks.  For the purpose of making a recording that sounds like what occurs in the presence of the microphones, I want gear that gets out of the way.)

The mics captured so much of what was occurring in the room, they showed me things I had up to then failed to consider in the recording.  Prime among these is the room in which the performance occurs.  In hindsight, this only makes sense since the departure from close mic placement means the engineer is no longer simply mic’ing the instrument; they are mic’ing the event.  The place in which it occurs is very much a key sonic component of the event.  A fine grand piano sounds very different in a nice auditorium than it does in even a large domestic room.  The latter has intimacy but the former is required to access the grandeur—assuming the music and performance call for this.  (Here again, what is “good” depends entirely on the results one seeks.)

For the next experiment, I got permission to use a more suitable space:  Atlantic’s Studio A.  The instrumentation for this project consisted of grand piano, synthesizer, saxophone, bass and drums.  I’d been giving a lot of thought to how I would deploy the microphones this time.  For the earlier solo piano experiments, my thinking was really in terms of the piano, though the results taught me I should have taken a wider perspective to include the space.  Now I was also considering the relationship between the positions of the two microphones during recording and the two speakers during playback.  I thought there might be some reciprocity between the both ends of the chain.  (I will return to this concept in a future entry.)

The recording I made that night had a sense of coherence and focus I had heard on only a tiny number of recordings before then.  Though it was far from perfect and offered a number of new insights on what I should (and should not) do, it was a personal landmark insomuch as it really did offer a sense of being there, of bringing the listener to the performance, in the space in which that performance occurred.

When the folks offering the demo of the digital audio workstation responded to my skepticism by offering to burn me a CD-R, I knew exactly which recording would tell me the most about how passing through that computer system would affect the sound.  When they delivered the disc, I spent a lot of time doing synchronized comparisons of the disc playback with the original recording, switching back and forth between the two.  In the end, at the time, I could not detect a sonic difference.  Further tests of the workstation also revealed that while the existing (pre-computer) system introduced new types of distortions during certain operations, those same operations could be performed on the computer-based system with transparent results.  (There will be more to say about this in a future entry about the evolution of digital audio.)

Happily, digital audio was to make some great progress to get to where it is today.  Before that was to happen though, a perhaps even more earth-shaking experience was coming.  Despite what I’d been taught and what I’d read about in all the years I had enjoyed playing back recorded music, I was soon going to hear stereo for the first time.