Clifton and I went down to Phili on Wednesday to check in with our good friends Wharton and Darren at Plan B studios. It’s always an experience. The goal of the trip was to do some solid work on Wharton’s newest record. It’s an epic saga about a slave ship coming into the West Indies: a heavy story and some dramatic music to boot.
Wharton himself is kind of a bull in a china shop kind of guy. Even though the environment he surrounds himself with seems unbreakable, there are always scuffles with the law, with the city and with certain gun-totin’ “friends” that an air of violence and danger surrounds the long suffering giant known as Wharton Tract. This time was no different. When you are dealing with such a bundle of raw power, conspiracy theory fueled aggression, alcohol inspired madness, kind hearted generosity and burning passion for artistic peaks a very delicate animalistic social dance is required. There is sniffing involved. Like a pack of dogs uncertain of the various levels of Alpha in the room, we all must sniff and re-acquaint and talk and drink to re-establish just the right balance of trust, autonomy, and respect that will allow each of us to help each other.
Hours later, the microphones are set up and yours truly is asked to play some bravura, ultra-high, loud-as-possible, soaring, epic, hair-raising, full-bodied, huge-toned lamentation music over a solid and trashy 6/8 groove. It’s the overture to the whole piece and the voice of the trumpet is the focal point for the lamentations and sufferings held within the cells of a slave ship. Let me go warm up.
The first take was solid but the second take was more broken and plaintive. Eventually a combination of the two will be used with each of them taking turns in the foreground while the other acts as an echo.
The next task was to create a lapping water effect. I wrote out three phrases of varying lengths to be played with three different mutes. The phrases would overlap as they went in and out of phase with each other. Each one had a narrow range of pitches and together the effect was simultaneously tense and soothing. The repetition and the humanness of the sound was soothing but the occasional and arhythmic burn of very close intervals made it tense.
Finally, I recorded three more trumpets and a slide-trumpet track of chortles, wheezes, lamentations, screams, sarcasm, death wishes, fear, pain, and whimpering. The idea was to create a conversation between the slaves at the landing of the ship.
Throughout the process, Clifton is at the helm as producer, giving direction and approving or requesting more. Darren is riding the board, setting up the mics, getting levels, tweaking the pre-amps, re-patching the patches, and generally being efficient, calm and encouraging. Wharton is either hulking in a chair with a glare of severe, glassy rage, his glass of scotch on the rocks tilted downhill, or he is no where to be found, letting the process continue as it might. Whenever he would look at you, you would get a wonderful generosity and caring and appreciation. It always felt like a blessing to have him on your side or for him to think that you are on his side. Did I mention that Wharton is also physically huge: 6′4″ and hulking with hands like shovels.
We spend hours in the basement of the spice factory doing tracking in this and in similar manners before checking with the outside world around 4am. A foot of snow has already fallen and there is no way we are going to be traveling on the morn. Sleep overtakes at 6am and the next day begins and repeats. A banjo player from Rome arrives and records his bit on a dixie-landish number called Chocolate City. I get to play pixie/plunger trumpet trading riffs with him. The electric guitar comes out and is TURNED ALL THE WAY UP TO TEN!! IT IS SO LOUD. But that’s how you get a rock n’ roll sound. Set up the mics and Clifton makes his metal magic. His choice of warm-ups included dazzling and impeccably accurate virtuosic renditions of Jimi Hendrix, Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and David Gilmore from Floyd. Darren Morze kicked the shit out of the Bonham drum parts and the whole thing was an hour of entertainment just getting Clifton to shake off the rock guitar cobwebs via a trip to visit the masters. He slays it. Naturally. We crank up the old Hammond Organ and I get to play a role in the creation of a slave traders desires. Yucky feelings but great dark music and spooky grooves with thick syrup and swirly sweat from the organ. The snow is still sheeting sideways at 4am!
It’s midnight. We’ve already played two gigs today. We get to the radio station at around 1am and thank heavens there is food for us. We go down the long hallway past all the great photos of FDR on WOR and of broadcasts from Yankee Stadium in the 1930’s. In the office part with the cubicles there is a serving tray of ziti and a serving tray of chicken. When I step up to fill my plate a friendly old guy asks me my name and we get to in a very affable conversation. I know I recognize him from somewhere. He introduces himself as Kreskin. In my mind I hear myself say, “yeah, that Kreskin” How many Kreskin’s could there possibly be. This is mentalist Kreskin the great. Sweet guy! He didn’t pull anything as far as I can tell. (ROOSTER, rooster, RoOster, RRRRRooostterrrr)… where was I?
Day 3 of our 28 day blogathon
