I’ve been collaborating with a couple of recording studios for a while now, and as of a couple days ago, I will (hopefully) be adding a third to the roster.
These collaborations aren’t earning me anything financially – COVID is too much of a bastard, and I’m too new at this – but it’s gaining me something that I believe will be even more valuable in the long run.
Check the title if you haven’t figured it out yet.
I’ve been musing a lot about the beliefs we hold lately. I’m tempted to call it existentialism, except I’m not confident enough in my understanding of the word to use it, yet.
It all started with a conversation I had recently with a friend on free will.
We are both determinists (i.e. free will doesn’t exist), so the main argument centred around whether it mattered if it existed or not.
I noticed something yesterday. Each time I return to an aspect of music production, there’s a discomfort that arises and pushes me to stay with it until I’ve learned something (or several somethings) new.
It’s funny, because it really doesn’t feel like it’s up to me. Take the kick drum, one of the most frustrating instruments I’ve ever tried to mix.
Trying to get that damn thing to sound just right is like trying to compose music – while not waking a sleeping lion.
So I watch some videos, I learn a few more tricks on how to add more transient, or compression, or whatever, and play with my new tools until the kick sounds more serviceable to my admittedly green-ish ears.
Fast forward to the next song, and suddenly those tools no longer measure up. There’s some new elusive quality I wasn’t picking up on before, which I now need more tools to decipher…
When I first started creating my own songs, the assumption was that arranging, mixing, and mastering a track were all discrete steps, each with its own individual goals and standards of quality.
Now that I’ve struggled through almost half a dozen songs and spoken to a number of producers in the industry, I know that’s DEFINITELY not the case.