Classical Singer: What exactly does a record producer do?
Michael Fine: My children used to ask the same question. I once invited my son, then about eight years old, to a recording session. He sat quietly with a pair of headphones until the first break. Then, with a wise look that he has never lost, announced: “You get paid to listen to music all day? Not bad.” He was spot on. The recording producer is the ideal listener: supportive, trusting and hopefully knowledgeable as he listens, comments, and encourages. The artist trusts the producer to have sufficient knowledge of the work to spot errors, understand his interpretive goals and know what can be fixed in post-production. In the case of large-scale and expensive recordings, the producer must additionally manage time so that all the music gets recorded in the number of sessions allotted. Overtime is rarely an option these days. The artist must trust us, yes, but we also need to trust the artist. There have been many occasions where we have repeated a passage numerous times while the clock is running ominously ahead. I suggest that we have covered the passage and the artist will occasionally say, “Let me have one more take.” I anxiously glance at my watch and the conductor fidgets on the podium, but if it is a soloist I trust, we’ll do that extra take, often with wonderful results.
CS: But is there ever a time when the singer should overrule you?
MF: Of course. Unless a singer and producer have worked together for a very long time, it shouldn’t be “blind trust.” I had signed to an exclusive Deutsche Grammophon contract a young singer who was about to make her very first recording with orchestra; not any orchestra but one of the world’s great ensembles and its superstar conductor. Although another commitment prevented me from being in the booth, I encouraged her to trust her producer. If she felt she couldn’t tell Maestro that she needed an additional take or more time to make a phrase, the producer was there to support her. I’m sorry to say the gentleman behind the controls didn’t provide the right sort of support. He told the singer in one of his infrequent communications that everything was fine and overruled her nagging sense that additional takes were very necessary and could have been accommodated by the generous time budget DGG typically provided. The recording, even after valiant efforts in post-production, never realized any of our expectations. Despite excellent reviews and decent sales, all of us knew it should have been a better record.
CS: What exactly can you do in post-production?
MF: I did sessions last year in London’s Abbey Road studios for a large-scale choral work with major soloists where our very fine conductor blithely told the orchestra, “Don’t worry about it, Michael can fix it.” Very flattering, but I often wish they wouldn’t take this attitude. On another occasion, after a CD was issued following particularly difficult sessions in London and what could only be called intensive-care editing, a member of the London Symphony Orchestra called me “Michael Scissorhands.” Editing has a bad reputation, entirely undeserved, outside our business. I was speaking to a group of Juilliard students, telling a tale of heroic editing, when I saw a student vehemently waving her arm in front of me. “Isn’t editing dishonest? Hasn’t it been used to perpetrate fraud?” I reminded her that all the actual notes on the record came from the artist but that we helped put some of them together in the most attractive way. She was still unhappy. I then took a different approach: had she a publicity photograph? Of course. Did the photographer shoot more than one roll of film to create this one photo? Yes. Did he do any touch up work? Yes. Is the photograph still your picture? An imperfect analogy but with a grain of truth.
Yes, we can remove breaths, make a perfect transition to that high note which came from ten takes. We can trim, paste, improve and even rescue a performance. But there are as many times when I have three takes, all good, all different, when I agonize over each note deciding which is the most beautiful. And there are times when I have knowingly left a mistake in the finished master, because the beautiful musical phrase was more important than that single incorrect note.
The world-premiere recording of Leonard Bernstein’s Arias and Barcarolles played an important role in my career development. It was also the first recording for the new label I had just started for KOCH and we had expended the label’s entire capital between the recording sessions and studio editing. The final hurdle prior to release was Bernstein’s sanction. I was nervous, because there was a minor error in the master tape. Yes, we had made a correction, but when I tried to paste in the new take, the vocal line magnificent in the take where the piano unfortunately played the wrong octave was compromised. I elected to preserve a perfectly exquisite vocal line and leave the piano an octave lower than written.
I sat up late into the night imagining Bernstein throwing the tape out the window and refusing to allow the release of the recording. The window! My fertile brain then came up with the unimaginably silly strategy of opening the window a moment before the offensive phrase was heard, thereby distracting the maestro’s attention and getting me out of a potentially disastrous situation. I was ushered into Bernstein’s flat along with my assistant and the recording’s pianists, Steven Blier and Michael Barrett. Bernstein seemed pleased with what he heard, noting with surprise and delight that we had included the ballet music beautifully played by Blier along with William Sharp’s superb “Lonely Town.” At one point, Bernstein asked us to stop the tape. He moved from his desk to the piano and played one of the chords he had just heard saying: “I loved that chord when I wrote it, I still love it now.”
I was enjoying the moment as well: I too loved that chord and was acutely aware that its poignant loveliness was delaying the moment in which LB would hear the potentially fatal mistake. The tape rolled again with him making favorable comments from time to time and questioning a few minor points. His enthusiasm seemed complete when our little mishap became audible. “Stop the tape! What was that?” I launched into a feeble explanation and Bernstein, still feeling magnanimous, announced to our general relief and satisfaction that “the whole damn thing is so good, I’ll let you get away with it!” Relief flowed round the room and the tape rolled again, this time to its end without interruption. Bernstein began shaking my hand thanking me for my efforts. I couldn’t even begin to thank him for what I’ve always considered the real beginning of my career. We spent another half-hour chatting, enjoying Lennie’s dissection of a review in New York magazine and speaking about Copland, whose music he was conducting with the NY Philharmonic that week. I saw Bernstein only one more time before he died in June 1990. His last words to me were: “Did you fix it?”
Editing shouldn’t be about perfection but about performance. With diligent editing and enough studio time, one can achieve a reasonable approximation of perfection, but this is sometimes at the cost of the performance. While nobody wants to hear an out-of-place breath or out-of-tune note that could be easily corrected, note-by-note editing can sometimes take the life out of the artists who stand by their work. Early in my career, I recorded a distinguished pianist at the end of his long career. While he couldn’t play the most difficult passages perfectly any longer, he still had much to offer in performances of great wisdom, maturity, and insight. I suggested we isolate the most difficult sections and that he play them as many times as he liked. With luck and editing, we might be able to create those moments. He demurred and said “I can’t play those passages the way I used to but I still stand by my performance.” The great Heifetz was once ordered to repeat a passage again and again by his producer. The Maestro finally stopped and asked: “How many times have I played it incorrectly?” “Fourteen times,” responded the producer. “Then, that is how I play it.”
CS: We hear so much about the financial difficulties of the record labels. How bad are things and what are the labels looking for?
MF: The answer to your first question is simple: not as bad as people say and not as good as they might be! Contrary to popular opinion and the public statements of certain executives, the major classical labels are highly profitable. The largest have vast archives of content which they own outright and can exploit as reissues in the traditional retail venues. They also have the new economy of the Internet which offers access to recorded music to those who live away from major centers. The small labels serve niche-markets and must operate at very low costs. A well-managed classical record label is a fantastic business. I’m convinced there will always be an audience for new recordings of the standard literature and a small but loyal audience for the more esoteric offerings of the independent labels.
I should also note that there are areas in the world where the market for classical music on records in growing. Inevitably, there are also countries where sales are flat but still respectable. Only in the case of Asia with its recent fiscal crisis have we seen a decline, hopefully temporary, in the sales of classical records. Some things never change. You probably know the famous story of the prototype producer Fred Gaisberg in the early days of recordings. He had heard Caruso and determined to record him in a program of arias. When he cabled the record company with the tenor’s demand of £100, the company telegraphed back “FEE EXORBITANT. FORBID YOU TO RECORD.” (Gaisberg so believed in the young tenor’s talent that he went against the company’s orders and recorded him anyway. These recordings, made in a Milan hotel room, were Caruso’s first and formed the foundation both of Caruso’s superstardom and Victor Records. Ed.)
Your second question is more intriguing. The large labels are looking for stars and there are very few truly international classical music stars aside from the ubiquitous tenors. Artists who are household names in Germany may only have a tenuous foothold on the American scene. The small labels, by force, tend to be driven by repertoire considerations and will offer opportunities to young artists adventurous enough to discover and offer the unusual.
Both are looking for something memorable. There is a great deal of musical talent around: very gifted composers, instrumentalists, conductors, and singers with active careers; most of them have no appreciable discography. (I won’t speak here about the talent that is unable to fashion any sort of career.) I’m convinced the only reason to record artists is if there is something memorable about their performance. Think of the great voices and how, in your mind’s ear, you can recreate their unforgettable sound from a concert you attended or imagine how they would perform a role you’ve never heard them sing or which perhaps they will never attempt. The quality of their sound is unique, unmistakable, and unforgettable: you instinctively know how they turn a phrase, how they deliver a text. I remember once imagining Luciano Pavarotti singing the soprano aria “Ernani, Involami.” Though it could never happen on a concert stage, this impossible performance was perfectly credible, as heard in my imagination. One thinks of singers such as Renata Tebaldi, Mirella Freni (happily still singing), Carlo Bergonzi, Franco Corelli or today’s Cecilia Bartoli, Renée Fleming, and Bryn Terfel. Memorable!
CS: Assuming you’re not Bryn Terfel or Renée Fleming, how should a young singer approach a record company?
MF: When I worked at CAMI, long years ago, the mailroom would routinely throw out packages addressed simply to CAMI or Columbia Artists Management and not to a specific manager. Think of all those hopeful artists waiting for a response which would never come. At both KOCH and DGG, in a typical week I would receive hundreds of unsolicited tapes and proposals. When the pile reached the equivalent of an unwanted Everest, my assistant would begin sorting through the material noting things she thought would interest me. On rare occasions, a respected colleague would call and tell me to expect a package from so-and-so. Many of the tapes I received were amateurishly made and only gave the most cursory sound-picture of the artist. More than one came with a letter apologetically stating that the artist’s grandmother, mother, or spouse made the recording on a walkman from the back of the theatre. I’ll never forget one tape that consisted of five excruciating minutes of loud coughing close to the microphone with the distant sound of “Casta Diva” accompanied by what might have been electric keyboard. These efforts almost never pass what I call the fifteen-second test. If you are going to send a tape, make sure that it is at least technically acceptable and that your very best work is at the very beginning of the tape. And make sure you take the trouble to get the name and title of the living, breathing decision-maker at the label!
Luck plays a role as well. When I decided to record Luis Bacalov’s Missa Tango at DGG, I needed a soprano with a good lower register, a dark and memorable vocal color, good Spanish, and a timbre that would match Domingo’s tenor. By chance, I was in New York’s superb Master Sound Studio producing a tracking session with Thomas Hampson. I remembered hearing a tape of Ana Maria Martinez, who seemed to meet all my criteria. A call to her agent, Jack Mastroianni, revealed that she was in New York and willing to come to the studio at very short notice. We discovered an immediate connection when we met: I had recorded her mother in a recital program in the same studio a few years earlier. Ana Maria kindly agreed on the spot to allow me to record her audition. It was immediately apparent that she was exactly right for the part. As she sang, I was already thinking of other roles and projects. I rushed copies of the tape to Bacalov and conductor Myung-Whun Chung, but I had already decided we would hire her. Her debut recording on DGG came about through a fortuitous chance and will be, I’m sure, the first of many great recordings.
Similarly, I was recently hired to produce a recording of a Villa-Lobos Symphony in California. I had no role in hiring the soloists, all young artists unknown to me, but since producing the sessions, I’ve been in touch with all three and am trying to do a bit of behind-the- scenes promotion for each of them.
CS: What about making that all-important demo tape, and are there any secrets about microphone placement or where the singer should stand?
MF: The best place for a singer to stand is where he is most comfortable and has the necessary contact with his accompanist or conductor. Within reason, most producers and engineers can accommodate, and place the microphones in the best place to capture the voice at its most attractive. I know some producers who are religious about placing the singer behind the piano’s raised lid. This is easier for us as we have more control separating the voice and piano but usually less comfortable for the artist.
There is no one right way to make a recording. But you should always come back to the booth after the first take or two to listen, so changes can be made if warranted, and you have no unhappy surprises later. (Of course, in the case of sessions with orchestra, this isn’t always feasible, but your producer should call a break not too far into the first session to allow you the opportunity to listen to playback.) Don’t forget that it takes the producer a little time to get the balances just right, and he’ll appreciate the opportunity to hear your reaction. If you are not happy with the resultant sound on the initial takes or with where you are placed on stage, don’t hesitate to speak up and be wary about “I can fix it later” unless you know the producer/engineer has a track record that makes his statement convincing. In the case where you are hiring the producer, you have a right to expect reasonable results. I have always preferred to use large-diaphragm microphones – usually a pair – on singers as they tend to be rich in overtones. Our job is to find the right microphones and placement so that the artist sounds his best. I don’t recommend making your own tape as the experience and ears of a good producer will pay for themselves in results. Most producers have special rates for demo tapes.
Making a record with a professional producer, even if only a demo, should be a good experience. The process makes you a better artist as it compels you to listen to yourself with complete objectivity. Think of it as a chamber music experience with intensive coaching. Through the recording process, you can make new discoveries about yourself, your voice, and your interpretation. I can think of countless instances where an artist came to the studio after hundreds of performances to discover a new approach to a vocal or interpretive problem. You can also take risks that might be inappropriate in performance. The studio is more forgiving: if it doesn’t work, we won’t use the material.
CS: Tell us about some of the singers you have worked with.
MF: Rather than name too many names, let me just mention the extraordinary privilege of working with Cecilia Bartoli and Bryn Terfel on the Faure/Durufle Requiems and the two anthologies that comprise DGG’s Hymn for the World series. Aside from being a genuinely delightful person with an intense curiosity about and love for music, Cecilia is a complete professional on and off stage and knows better than anyone I have produced how to “work the microphone.” I don’t need to mention the extraordinary voice. I remember the first take of the Faure Pie Jesu, usually done by a soprano and never previously sung by Cecilia. We sat in the booth literally feeling “In paradisum.” Normally, when a take finishes, the producer immediately comes on with his “Thank you” and comments. There was at least a minute of silence before anyone would venture a word. And just being around the larger-than-life, incredibly gifted Bryn Terfel is always a musical and personal treat. I was proud to bring Magdalena Koczena and Thomas Quastoff to the DGG roster. We invited Magdalena to the DGG 100th birthday celebration where she performed Rossini’s “Cat Duet” with opera legend Teresa Berganza before an audience that included DGG artists, past and present, as well as Eliette von Karajan and Nina Bernstein. I will never forget Thomas’ profoundly moving Winterreise in New York nor the stunning Wunderhorn he recorded for us with the great Swedish mezzo Anne Sofie von Otter and that paragon of conductors, Claudio Abbado.
It has also been a privilege to produce many young artists’ first recordings. Just one example: New York soprano Ruth Golden and I discovered that we both shared a love for English art song and agreed to a three disc series beginning with Delius and continuing with Warlock and Vaughan Williams. After finishing the sessions for the Delius, I asked Ruth if she would just sing through Warlock’s “My Own Country,” surely one of the loveliest songs in any language. There wasn’t a dry eye in the studio as she finished.
CS: What would you say to today’s young singers?
MF: You are part of a marvelous and storied profession representing the proudest and most nearly unique contribution that Western civilization has bestowed upon the world. Don’t believe the egregious lie that classical music is dead. Every year, millions of people discover classical music and opera. How exciting it is to be able to share your gift.
Michael Fine is available for production services, including master tapes and demos, as well as career consulting. He can be reached by e-mail at Finem@yahoo.com.
