George Martin, Tony Visconti, Phil Spector, Phil Ramone….some of the most famous record producers of all time; and a list that any popular music enthusiast would be able to extend without much thought. Yet even the most devoted classical music aficionado, is unlikely to be able to name even one famous classical music record producer. Certainly, there were those who made their mark: Fred Gaisburg, Walter Legge and John Culshaw, each of whom had a profound influence on the development of classical music recording, but they’ve been dead for more than a quarter of a century; and there are those who believe that classical music is soon to meet the same fate.
The idea that the purpose of classical music recording is to capture the essence of performance seems to set it apart from pop music recording, in which the recording process is overtly creative, and where the producer’s ideas about melody, harmony, instrumentation, balance and musical character are at least as influential as the musician’s. He is trusted, on the strength of his previous successes, to make a record that will be commercially, as well as musically successful. So he earns and deserves his fame. The classical music producer on the other hand, is presented with a complete musical performance; immutably notated and rendered by an ensemble of musicians with very clear ideas and intentions of their own. So why should his contribution warrant more than a microscopic mention on page 9 of the CD booklet?
Even among musicians there is little awareness of what the producer actually does - or should do. He is the musical face of what is otherwise considered a technical exercise: a sort of anti-friction device, preventing the relations between artist and uncomprehending technicians from becoming too fractious. Perhaps it is because the true nature of his craft is so poorly understood that it is now painfully common for it to be so poorly realised: after all, many of today’s self-styled producers were themselves musicians in a previous life. Rarely do they have either the experience or a deep understanding of what their chosen craft demands of them. They comprehend merely the obvious aspects of the job: poring over the score, spotting wrong notes, poor intonation and imprecise ensemble. These aspects are merely the mechanics of the craft. An understanding of other intangibilities marks out a really good producer, and it is here that his craft most closely resembles that of the pop music producer. If he chooses to exercise it, he has a great deal of influence: over the musicians, the musical result and the finished, commercial product.
Sadly today, his influence is more often counter-productive: even destructive. Understanding the editing process and the effect it has on the musical result continues to be one of the greatest stumbling blocks facing musicians and producers. While editing has been possible since the advent of tape recording, developments in digital technology have altered the process beyond recognition. The possibility of manipulating every conceivable musical parameter means that it is now possible to make technically inaudible edits almost anywhere in the music – including in the middle of sustained notes – and they often are. Obviously, producers are not unaware of the risks, but as with any technology, it is difficult to elect not to do something that it is possible to do, whether it be grafting a human ear onto the back of a mouse, or turning a pig’s ear into a silk purse!
Gradually, over a number of years, the objective of editing has changed from being a means of removing minor blemishes from the best take; to compiling a collage of micro takes into one seamless whole. There is nothing new in this assessment, but the usual Luddite over-reaction is to prohibit editing altogether: the policy adopted by Nimbus Records during the 80s’. The incautious insertion of edited sections into a complete performance does sometimes threaten the underlying musical contiguity. All too often, ‘patch takes’ begin only a bar or two before the join is to be made, ending equally precipitously afterwards. The assumption that if a join is technically inaudible it must also be musically indiscernible is unwarranted. It’s simply more difficult to recognise the musical double-jointedness that ruptures and deranges the underlying musical sense.
Musical disruption of this kind is I realise, a difficult concept both to explain and to intuit for those who have no experience of the process. However, imagine a recording of several versions of a spoken phrase, each with subtly different inflections. Even if the punctuation is observed studiously, each repetition will be very slightly different: particularly if the speaker begins a take mid phrase. Now imagine an editor stitching it all together. If he makes the joins at punctuation points this will emphasise the differences between the versions because the way in which one phrase is spoken determines how the next begins. The result of such an exercise would, most likely, sound comical – rather like the computerised voices that announce train timetable information and the like - and would certainly detract from the sense of the text. So it is with music, although what constitutes sense and line are harder to define and as music is subtler than language it is that much easier to destroy.
However, sticking one’s head-in-the-sand does little to address the problem; instead it gives free rein to those exponents who have no qualms about editing together a whole patchwork of more or less musical snippets. There is nothing wrong with the technology, besides, it’s futile to ignore developments that it is human nature to devise. The formidable power of editing can be turned to advantage providing it’s not used blithely and irresponsibly. The modern producer sometimes acts like a 5 year-old who’s swapped his Lego for an oxy-acetylene welding torch.
to be continued
By Guthry Trojan
Guthry Trojan is is a freelance classical and jazz recording engineer based in Paris, who has his own blog at http://guthrytrojan.blogspot.com/