Musings on the Value of a Truly Good Producer

[The May 2014 issue of Recording Magazine featured a long and technically detailed cover story about the making of my album Two Pines, written by my producer Sven-Erik Seaholm. I was invited by the editor of Recording Magazine to write a guest editorial about the artist's perspective of the whole process. This is that piece. www.recordingmag.com]

Making an album is not for the timid. It’s going to cost you some sleep, and more than a little money. It’s going to occupy your every waking moment for months. It’ll damage your health, your serenity, and your relationships. Some days you’ll be gripped with self-loathing and the compulsion to throw in the towel. Other days you’ll secretly entertain the thought that you might be a genius and your record a masterpiece. Then your sanity returns and you get back to work.

A journey this treacherous should never be taken alone. You’re going to need a great producer.

A producer is many things. A friend, a technician, a guide, a strategist, an organizer, a cheerleader, a shaman, a mom, a barista, a host, a roadie, a therapist, a confidant, a diplomat, a savant, a maker of sandwiches—but more than anything else, a producer is a trusted collaborator whose decisions at a thousand forks in the road could mean the life or death of your record. Sure mic placement matters. EQ, preamps, signal paths, and compression settings are all important. But the single most important element in any successful recording project is the relationship between the artist and the producer. If you don’t trust, rely on, respect, and admire your producer, you’re doomed.

I hadn’t made an album in seven years. Life got in the way. My day job as a philosophy professor and the demands of my expanding work as a writer and speaker pushed music off of center stage. I’d even fired myself from my own band The Coyote Problem. It was just all too much. But the songs kept coming. Seven years is a lot of songs. I had to do something. It was time to make an album.

As the song list came together I realized I needed a title song, one last piece to tie all the themes of the record together. I tuned my Taylor to a double drop D and wrote “Two Pines.”

I decided to call Sven-Erik Seaholm, the producer of The Coyote Problem’s two albums, Wire in 2005 and California in 2007. We’d worked well together, we had exceptional rapport, and most importantly we got great results. The two trophies for Best Americana Album from the San Diego Music Awards didn’t hurt. Art contests are weird but hey, I’ll take it.

At our first meeting we talked about what kind of record we wanted to make. Like Stephen Covey says, begin with the end in mind. I wanted a raw, warm, open sound. I wanted three things front and center—the holy trinity of acoustic guitar, bass, and drums. We talked about Neil Young’s “Out on a Weekend.” We talked about Tom Petty’s “You Don’t Know How it Feels.” We talked about Nashville vs. Austin, hi-fi vs. lo-fi, and Steve Earle. We talked about the nearly impossible goal of getting a recorded acoustic guitar to sound like an acoustic guitar. Sven listened carefully, took it all in, and found a way.

As our first scheduled session grew near I upped my practice schedule. I wanted to be ready. I searched deep and long for the soul of this album. In any artistic project or process, the most important question is always the same. What to leave in and what to leave out? The pressure began to build.

I wasn’t nervous in front of the mic. I know how to play my songs. In fact, recording is really fun. It’s the editing that’ll get you. Especially when it came to guitar overdubs...

I’d do nine takes of Dobro on a song, and then Sven and I would start editing. It’s agonizing—which licks of which takes to put where. Thankfully, Sven has the uncanny ability to remember all of the moods and feels of all of them, and deftly moves through the song mousing and clicking and splicing and blending and bringing the best of the best together into one seamless performance. I’m always torn by indecision and haunted by the takes not used—what if there’s a gem in there we’re leaving out? Watching your producer edit is like handing him a scalpel and closing your eyes. This is why trust is so important.

I came to rely on Sven to do the right thing, and nine times out of ten we agreed. When we didn’t, he’d listen and either change his mind or gently make his case. It often felt like we were one person, one man with two heads and four hands, and we were making music together. People who don’t make records have no idea how deeply embedded a producer is. I was there for every edit, but there isn’t one note on this album that Sven hasn’t touched, nurtured, birthed, and brought to life. Sure, I sang it and played it. But in a very real sense, so did he.

In the end, that’s the greatest gift a producer gives an artist—a safe place to be who they really are. It’s the little things. Having the coffee ready. Knowing when you need another take and when you don’t. Supporting you through a thousand decisions, sometimes leading, sometimes following, until you don’t know who’s in charge. You just know that something good is happening, and you’re thrilled to be a part of it.

Peter Bolland is an Americana artist, writer, and educator who lives and records in the San Diego area. Keep an eye on peterbolland.com for information about the upcoming release of his new album Two Pines.

Two Pines

When I turned 12 in 1972 my brother John gave me a very important birthday present – Neil Young’s brand new album Harvest. From the opening notes of “Out on a Weekend” to the haunting atmosphere of the closing track “Words” I was caught by its spell. I had never heard anything so achingly beautiful before in my life.

In the years before ’72 it was all about the Beatles, the Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Jimi Hendrix, and even the Monkees. But behind the façade of all that glamorous rock and roll a quiet movement was building, a rootsy, acoustic, country rock feel with more debt to Dylan and the folk scene than to anything else. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were its standard bearers, and when Young left the supergroup he fled to Nashville and began working on Harvest with a core group of seasoned country players. The album’s success took Young by surprise and maybe even frightened him. Harvest became the best selling album in America in 1972 and when “Heart of Gold” went to number one, his first and last number one single, he backed away from the fame fearing he was becoming middle of the road. “I headed for the ditch,” he later said, “a rougher ride but I saw more interesting people there.”

Harvest went on to influence an entire generation of country rock folkies like me. My own guitar playing, singing, and song writing began to turn in that direction. It just felt like home. It’s all there in the opening track, “Out on a Weekend” – that emptiness, that loneliness, that simplicity, that bare bones honesty. A kick drum, a snare, a bass guitar, an acoustic guitar, a harmonica, a pedal steel, and simple lyrics about the redemption of the road – what else could you possibly need?

Many years later when I began making my own records I kept looking for a way to emulate that feel. I didn’t want to imitate Neil. Where’s the joy in mimicry? I wanted to find my own sound, my own voice, my own truth. But an apple never falls far from the tree.

My first album, Live at a Better World, was recorded live in the 90s at a wonderful folk music venue we were all playing at called A Better World Café. My folk duo partner at the time Mark Jackson and I stripped it down to two acoustic guitars and two voices – a simple, spare approach that let the songs shine. For my second album Frame, produced and recorded by Michael Krewitsky, we took advantage of the emerging technology of Pro Tools and the freedom it gives you. We both learned a lot about making rootsy Americana music with computers and software.

When I formed the Coyote Problem we made two albums with producer Sven-Erik Seaholm – Wire in 2005 and California in 2007. I told Sven I wanted a simple, dry, straight forward sound with minimal production sheen. I wanted it to sound like, you know, a band in a room. We succeeded. Both of the albums won Best Americana Album at the San Diego Music Awards in their respective years, a humbling honor.

It’s been seven years since California. Life got in the way. The Coyote Problem had a great run, but it was hard for me to keep up with the demands of running a band and a challenging career as a philosophy professor. I fired myself from my own band and focused on writing and teaching. I kept doing solo acoustic shows. And of course the songwriting never slowed down. In seven years a lot of songs piled up. I had to do something.

There are a lot of great producers. But in the end I went back to Sven-Erik Seaholm. We work well together, and I feel at home in his studio having made two albums there already, as well as spending countless hours as a session player on other people’s projects. We had a meeting and talked about the vision for this album. We talked about Neil Young’s “Out on a Weekend.” We talked about Tom Petty’s “You Don’t Know How it Feels.” We talked about acoustic guitar sounds and kick drums and amplifiers. We came to an understanding about what the goals for this record were. Like Steven Covey says, “Begin with the end in mind.”

Sven worked really hard to get a rich, authentic acoustic guitar sound using a complicated array of three microphones and signal paths (I try not to pay attention to any of that stuff – it just makes me feel stupid).  In many ways, getting a good acoustic guitar sound is the most difficult thing to do in the studio – the sound comes off the guitar in so many places and so many ways. But Sven did it.

Listening back to the initial tracks I realized something was missing. I needed a title song to unify all the themes of the record. So I wrote one. I tuned my guitar to a double drop D (the tuning Neil uses on “Cinnamon Girl,” “Ohio,” and “Cortez the Killer”) and I wrote a song called “Two Pines.” It came out so good we decided to open the album with it.

There are a lot of great drummers and bass players. It was an agonizing decision. But I finally decided on Bob Sale and Jim Reeves. They both have this amazingly powerful, muscular, confident feel and they play with the most arresting of all qualities – simplicity. They never clutter things up with busy, fussy, unnecessary flourishes. They find the essence and bring songs to life. We tracked them together while Sven and I sat in the control room. Our jaws hit the floor after the first song. I had goose bumps. This was it. They showed up early, stayed late, came in prepared, and exceeded all expectations. They tracked all 14 songs in one day, many on the first take. It is such a joy to work with professionals.

That session was followed by weeks of overdubs. I played Dobro, lap steel, 12 string, electric guitar, percussion, harmonica, and of course sang the vocal parts. We brought in Melissa Barrison to play violin on one song, and Sven played a piano riff on another. But the album is mostly bass, drums, guitars, and vocals. Our arrangement philosophy was “When in doubt, leave it out.”

In many ways, Two Pines is the album I’ve been trying to make all along. I’m proud of all of my earlier work, but with each album you learn a little more. You get closer and closer to the truth. The songs get stronger. The playing gets better. The singing gets truer. You relax more and more. And when you relax, the real you finally shows up.

All any singer-songwriter wants is to hear their songs recorded well, and to share those songs with anyone who’s interested. Real musicians don’t chase fame or money – they do it because they’re drawn into the spell that music casts, and they simply want to add their voice to the chorus. We all love music. We love what it does to us, how it frees us, unlocks our heart, opens our eyes, and shines light on the beauty of our own lives. We all have our favorite genres, styles, and artists. But beneath all the surface variations, it’s all just one song – our song. Music is memories; music is a new friend you haven’t met yet. Music is a feather bed and a field of stones. Music is many things, and one thing – a way to know a truth beyond words, a truth our soul is asking for, a truth that sets us free. That’s what your favorite music does for you. Let it.  

Cloud Shadows

[This piece was originally published in my "A to Zen" column in the May/June 2014 issue of Unity Magazine under the title "The Wisdom of Embracing Change," and is reproduced here with permission.]

The ancient Chinese Taoist philosopher Chuang Tzu lived alone in the mountains. Legend has it that when his wife died, his Confucian friend Hui Tzu made the difficult journey up the mountain to pay his respects. When Hui Tzu reached Chuang Tzu’s hut three days later he found his old friend singing, banging on a kettle, and dancing naked around the fire. Hui Tzu was mortified. This was certainly not proper decorum in the aftermath of such a grievous event, and not befitting a philosopher of such renown.

Hui Tzu stepped into the clearing and chastised the old man.

“Chuang Tzu, how can you behave so outrageously? Proper etiquette demands that with the loss of a spouse one wears black and behaves solemnly for one year. And here you are dancing naked around a fire banging on a kettle and singing at the top of your lungs.”

Chuang Tzu looked at his old friend.

“Three days ago, when my wife died,” he said, “I fell apart. I sank to the ground, curled up into a fetal position and didn’t move for three days. I wept and gasped for air like a fish out of water. Then I realized that it was time to get up. My wife was not my possession, therefore she could not be “lost.” Each of us arises out of the field of pure potentiality and takes form for a while. Then we return to the great field of formlessness. Why mourn?  I did not mourn before she was born, why should I mourn now? Instead, I celebrate the time we had together. Now when my eyes fill with tears they are not tears of sorrow but tears of gratitude for the depth and beauty she brought into my life.”

Behind this apocryphal story lay a very important theme – things change. And wisdom is acceptance of change. Maybe it’s just that simple.

The Buddha taught that impermanence (anitya) was one of the fundamental qualities of reality. Not only does everything change, but everything changes into everything else. Each composite thing is built from bits and pieces of formerly composite things. Therefore everything is part of one, vast, interconnected web of being. Nothing is self-caused. Everything is dependent on everything else. Thich Nhat Hahn calls it “inter-being.” This boundless interdependency links each of us into the whole whether we’re aware of it or not. Forms may come and go, but the whole is intact. Learning to love the whole as much as the parts is the engine of our awakening.

A year ago I had the honor of performing a memorial service for a friend whose son had died of a drug overdose. All funerals are hard, but this one was particularly painful. The deceased was a vibrant, outgoing, talented young man, as well as a recovering opiate addict. He was doing well. Then he slipped and made a dosage error. His mother found him dead in his bed three days before Christmas. I recently spoke to her and asked her how she was doing now that it’s been over a year. She said it was hard. The first six months she could hardly breathe. Then slowly and for no particular reason the suffocating grip of grief began to lift. Nothing would ever be the same, but the strange clarity of peace began to penetrate and illuminate the sorrow. She misses him every day, and it will never be right that he died so young, but in her dawning wisdom she knew – everyone dies, it’s only a matter of when, and we do not measure the value of a life by its length but by its depth.

A cloud casts a shadow that passes swiftly over the surface of the earth, here and then gone. A cloud is just a coalescence of ice crystals and water vapor high in the atmosphere. It isn’t really a thing, but a collection of elements taking momentary form, sometimes even a recognizable form – a feather, a flower, the face of a loved one. Then high winds rend it apart, its form dissolving in the light of the sun. And the shadow vanishes.

As he lay dying the Buddha told his monks, “Remember this, all forms are impermanent.” Suffering, he taught, was the natural result of a cognitive error – the mistaken notion that we own any of this. Everything we have is borrowed, and we must give it all back, sometimes suddenly and without warning. Living in the wisdom of impermanence enables us to be fully present in this now moment, the only moment there ever is. By coming out of the fog of the delusion of permanence, we awaken into reality – a place of love and interconnectedness that the mind and its ego attachments can never access. By saying yes to transition, we say yes to the unambiguous beauty of being alive.

Crowdfunding

In 1884 the committee in charge of funding the Statue of Liberty ran out of money. Joseph Pulitzer used his newspaper the New York World to spread the word. More than 125,000 people heard the call and donated over $100,000. Most gave less than a dollar – a small price to pay for bragging rights every time you spied Lady Liberty lording over the New York harbor – “I built that.”

These days, if you want to make a film, record an album, mount a play, or launch any other sort of art project, you’re going to need money – a lot of money. You have some choices. One is to self-fund – drain the household budget dry and somehow scrape together thousands of dollars to fund your project. Or you can find corporate sponsorship – a business partner who sees some commercial benefit in allying with you and your work. Both of those approaches have their benefits and liabilities. But the liabilities loom large. Going broke or permanently hitching your art to a corporate logo leaves something to be desired. Fortunately, there’s a third alternative – crowdfunding.

Crowdfunding isn’t new. But it was slow to catch on. These days there are dozens of crowdfunding services available with Indiegogo, Kickstarter, and GoFundMe leading the pack. Each of these many services has its own boundaries and permutations. Some focus on the arts, others on medical expenses. But they all have one thing in common – they create an opportunity for community-building in ways personal or corporate funding do not.

I started my 30 day Kickstarter campaign on March 18. My goal was to raise $6,000 toward the recording, production, and manufacturing of my new CD Two Pines. There were a lot of decisions to make. How much money? You don’t want to set the target too low because it costs about $10,000 to make an album. And you don’t want to set it too high, because with Kickstarter, if you don’t hit your target in the allotted time, you don’t get a dime and the whole thing goes away. We aimed low hoping to raise at least 60% of the $10,000 we needed. We ended up with $8,833. How long of a campaign? Your first instinct is to let it go a long time, say 90 days, so that there’s ample time to hit your goal. But Kickstarter advises you to choose a 30 day campaign for one simple reason – their research shows that 30 day campaigns successfully fund at a much higher rate than longer campaigns – something about the urgency. So we went with a 30 day campaign. We were fully funded in 20 days.

Then you have to make a video. Since I don’t know anything about making videos I decided on a simple, single camera, direct appeal. I shot three versions of me just talking into the camera, making my pitch on what this project was about, what my goals were, and how you could help. Then I just laid an audio track underneath – the song “Long Way Home” from my last album.

Then I had to decide on the number and amount of reward levels. I looked at a lot of other successful Kickstarter campaigns for ideas, including those by my friends Eve Selis, Grant Langston, and Joe Rathburn. That’s when it occurred to me – crowdfunding is not charity. You’re not just passing the hat and shaking down your friends for cash so you can make your little art project a reality. Turns out it’s nothing like that at all, although that’s certainly the rap it often gets. What really happens is this – you’re giving your fans the rare opportunity to get inside an art project on the ground floor. At the lower dollar levels, $15 and $20, you’re giving them a download or a signed copy of the CD before anyone else gets to hear it. At the $30, $50, $75 and $100 levels you’re offering increasing packages of handwritten, signed and framed lyrics, signed album posters, some or all of the back catalog of Peter Bolland and the Coyote Problem CDs, and the permanent tribute of being listed in the album credits as a contributor.

Then, following the pattern I’d seen on other Kickstarter campaigns, I created a $500 and $1,000 level. At the $500 level you get all previous rewards, plus a solo house concert anywhere within a hundred miles of San Diego as well as the title of associate producer in the album credits. At the $1,000 level you get all that plus a custom song written and recorded just for you and the title of executive producer. And this is where it got amazing. Within two hours after the launch, back on March 18, someone came in at the $500 level. And it wasn’t long before someone came in at the $1,000 level too. In fact, in the final analysis, the seven backers at the $500 and $1,000 level account for 71% of the funding. Another surprise was the twelve backers at the $100 level. When you add the top three tiers together – the $1,000, the $500 and the $100 levels – you get a staggering 85% of the total funding. I did not see that coming.

The real benefit of crowdfunding, besides of course the funding, is the community that forms around your project. Before your album even hits the street there is already broad awareness, piqued interest, and committed support. By creating an opportunity to become a co-creator of a work of art, you are giving people a chance many of them don’t often get. Music is already an inherently communal art form – it exists in the space between performer and audience. It belongs as much to the audience as it does to the artist. It is a profoundly intimate art form. Noises you make with your body – your fingers, hands, mind, soul, heart, and voice – travel through the air as physical vibrations and enter the body of another – their ears, their skin, their mind, their heart. Music is the total immersion of one soul into another. Crowdfunding allows you to expand, celebrate and concretize this inherent symbiosis. By binding together exactly the right people – people who vote with their time, treasure, and talent for the completion of a new body of work – the lines between artist, art patron, and art perceiver blur until you don’t know where one ends and the other begins.

The experience is profound. I am humbled, enlivened, and grateful beyond words. I take the stage now a little differently than I did in the past. Now when I step on stage I stand there confident, authorized, supported, and absolutely convinced that this work has value. That is a gift my fans gave me, and I will strive to repay that debt with every song I sing. I know that even on those days when I don’t feel like singing, those nights when performance feels a little like a job and not so much like play, even then, with the first downbeat it all washes away and I’m caught again by the conviction that this matters, that the beauty of this music is not my own – it’s ours.

I feel it more strongly now than ever – the music not only belongs to all of us, the music is us. It is our heartbeat, our sorrow, our longing, our wit, our wisdom, and our aliveness. Music is a joining together. It only took 66 people to fund my album. Do you think you could get 66 people to co-create your next project? Are you humble enough to ask for help? Do you believe your work deserves wider support? Are you willing to prove it?