Typical Day
Damien B. Jamming jolts up at 9:00AM to the sound of the radio, reminding him what kind of music is still popular, despite the fact that it is unpleasant to wake up to the heavy bass. He brews his morning coffee and the percolator gives him a great idea for a song rhythm and he transcribes it immediately, just in case it might fit in with whatever Times New Mormon, his latest band discovery, has to offer in the studio today. The phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Damien?" It was Mario R. Derya-Around, Times New Mormon's manager. "Yeah, Johnny Sweetener and the boys had a pretty late night last night, they want to sleep it off today. Is there any way we can take a raincheck on the recording sesh? I don't know if I'll get them out of bed."
"Mario, I booked that studio time weeks ago and it will be weeks until I get another session for those clowns. I'm sick of their party-hard attitude. You tell them either meet me at the studio at 10:00AM or I will give that time to DJ Hard Work Pays and they can find themselves a new producer."
"Right on, Damien. Don't call the DJ, I'll make sure they get there."
He hangs up the phone and drives to the recording studio to meet Wagner Mixalot, the sound engineer so they can set up the sound booth with microphones, and he waits for Times New Mormon to show up.
"Jamming, man, why do we need to record so early? My voice is going to be all crackly and gross," Johnny Sweetener says, walking in with a donut and sunglasses on. His mostly-silent band-mates grunt their disapproval.
"Don't worry, Johnny. If you've got a voice of gravel, I can still make it work. Have you ever heard Tom Waits? That was just some clever mixing. Don't you trust me, boys? Now get into the booth."
Times New Mormon reluctantly carry their instruments into the booth and begin to warm up and tune their voices/guitars/snare drums. They try to open their eyes before noon for the first time in three months. Damien B. Jamming doesn't care, though, because, once these jokers make this sound digital, Jamming's going to be looking at a hefty paycheck.
He's looking at a modest flat-fee for this recording session, but he worked out a contract with Mario last week that gives him a 5% cut of the band's royalties from this album. And, mark Damien's words, they are going to be the next Nirvana. He would know. He produced them. (Editor's note: No, he didn’t. He isn't a real person.)
The boys put on their headphones and Jamming tells them to play their song "Foucault's Prison." This is going to be their big hit—that is, after Jamming and Mixalot make it into a hit.
Johnny starts belting out the first verse: "I'm in Foucault's prison, they're testing me / That Panopticon's getting the best of me." As they shred it in the booth, Jamming and Mixalot play around with the mixing board.
"When the chorus hits, I want you to boost the bass," Jamming demands. Mixalot pushes a knob up and the bass blares. "Yes, I like that," he says as the booth shakes from the incredible bass.
The session is suddenly interrupted by a ringing phone. It's Damien B. Jamming's, obviously. He can't go thirty minutes without a phone call from somebody or other.
"Jamming here," he says, answering the phone.
"Hello, Mr. Jamming. This is Sonya Thinkucansing from Good Beats Records."
"Hey there, Sonya. It's good to hear from you. You got the album I sent you?"
"Yes, that's why I'm calling. We'd like to schedule a meeting with you. We think The L.E.D.s are a band we can get behind, but we would need to discuss a few things, like the band's current image—and, of course, the financials. Can we set up a meeting with you and the band…say…Monday? 3:00PM?"
"That works for me. Let me talk to their manager and get back to you. But pencil us in for three. Good talking to you, Sonya." Jamming hangs up the phone and gets right back to business. "Let's run through it again!"
They run through again and Jamming gives Johnny some pointers. "When you say, "It’s like they're in my brain" in the second verse, I want you to wail "brain" so it’s more like "braheeyaineeyain." Got it? And Sugarlump, go easy on the distortion pedal. The band may be a grunge band, but we want to get some of the pop and top forty audience, too, okay?"
They run through the song again and again and play around with effect boxes, faders, and delays. They run through each time focusing on a different instrument by boosting the level on the mixing board so they can ensure that they have a flawless recording of each separate instrument that they can mix together once the band leaves.
That way, if Johnny flubs the lyrics while Sugarlump kills it with an impromptu guitar riff on the same take, they can still use it. Six hours later, "Foucault's Prison" and two other songs are ready for post-production. Times New Mormon will have an EP for A&R Departments in a couple days.
Jamming actually has some experience with mixing and could finish polishing the songs on his own, but, since he hired him, he'd rather leave it to Mixalot for now. He's been listening to these songs for the past three weeks and they could use a fresher ear. Besides, he's got other artists to produce. He can't spend all of his time on these guys.
On his drive home, he realizes he completely skipped lunch and quickly hits up the nearest drive-thru for two burgers and an order of fries he can chow down on his way home. He's got a bunch of phone calls to make—the first one being to The L.E.D.'s manager to set up that meeting with Good Beats Records—before he goes to a concert later. He promised DJ Hard Work Pays that he would check out this new act he has had his eye on and he's playing tonight. He has no time for a real sit-down meal.
The concert doesn't impress him much, but Jamming has also had a pretty long day. He can check out his Bandcamp tomorrow or something. Until then, he's got to nod off for a couple hours before he meets up with Mixalot to see how the album is coming along. He's already got a list of record companies and radio stations he is planning on sending their EP to and he's eager to get started. Right now, though, he's ready to feel that lullaby-like rhythm of the night.