Back in the day, going to the studio was a whole big thing. It was a place that cost a lot of money, where you had to have your shit together long before you even walked through the door.
More often than not, "recording sessions" involved taking time off work, maybe driving to another city. Everyone either pooled their money to pay the day rate, or someone worked a deal out with their dad.
If you were lucky, you had a couple days to get things down. If you were punk rock, you might have most of a Saturday. Most of the time, for the bands I was involved in, it was over a weekend. Set up, get sounds, do a dry run. "Ok, let's try one for real, guys."
Studio nerves were a thing. I fought them relentlessly in every single session from my college days to the weeks-long residences with Dave Fridmann and Alex Newport, even though everyone was already using Pro Tools by then and could redo tracks until the end of time. There was still an innate pressure to get it exactly right the first time. This was, of course, because time was money, and studios charged a lot of it.
After I dropped out of the band, something changed in my relationship to the hallowed "studio."
The easy answer would be that I stopped taking it so seriously. But as a full answer, that would be incomplete.
The picture in the upper inset is the first manifestation of what I'd call Bunker Studio. A tiny single family home in central Indiana where I wrote and recorded JC Autobody's TRASH and then later Lifetaker with a guitar amp I borrowed from my girlfriend's dad and Garageband drums.
This was several houses ago, but seeing that picture now gives me a bit of melancholy. It was a tumultuous time for me then. Fridmann introduced us to the idea of studio-as-laboratory back when we were there, and in the aftermath of a divorce, I took the idea to heart and wrote and recorded demo after demo all over this tiny house, making it up as I went.
I played on borrowed amps and guitars, a junk piano from a thrift shop, a junk floor tom and a ride cymbal. I took a week off from the job I had at the time to record TRASH, rarely leaving the house to record layer after layer of guitar and vocals and it was cathartic.
I didn't clean, didn't shower. Just took one bath late in the week. A touch grass moment if there ever was one. Some would call it a low point, but I called it a reset. The studio wasn't just a lab, it was a retreat.
How much pure feeling could I put down on the fewest amount of tracks? How much can I do with the bare minimum? I'd record an album of grunts and clapping if I were so moved. (And in a way, that's kind of what TRASH sounded like.)
The studio was no longer a place you went to. A recoupable expense, where people who wear sunglasses inside walk around clapping in the corners. The studio in its purest form was now anywhere in the world, any time, where you go to play and listen for the sound of your own voice.
A state of mind, and the last place, in my opinion, to have your shit together.
Pictures from the Trash Sessions (2009)
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