OVERDUBS
by j.charles @ textproductions
Music. That’s what all were here for. Most people are just slightly musically inclined. This group can be separated into the ones who think they’re good and the ones who realize the fact that they aren’t. But with practice someday, just someday, you may find yourself in the second group, the ones who actually posses talent. This group may also be subdivided. On the one hand you have ones who pursue greatness and constantly attempt to achieve greater levels of quality, realizing that music never stops changing. On the way way other side are the ones who assume that they are the greatest. The ones who hit upon moderate success and plateau. There they stay because they are unable to view life outside of the surroundings they have made and realize that there is a fan base as yet untapped by their talent.
The San Francisco bay encompasses a comparatively small surface area for as many inhabitants as it claims. Rich, young, black, white. And so many in between. The mission houses one of the richest centers for the Latino culture in northern California. Chinatown, also situated in San Francisco, is another refuge for recent immigrants new to the bay, and very possibly the country. As well as being an all encompassing welcome mat for the world, the bay is also a breeding ground for up and coming musicians of all types. Emcees battle it out in so damn many clubs in Oakland. Deejays fight for deck time in every club, bar and dining room where electricity is available. Percussionists and saxophone players can be found with ease by simply walking down to a busy street and dropping a dollar in someone’s hat. The same goes for guitar players and vocalists. Basically it’s easy to find talent. Reasonably gifted talent. But to create an ensemble as great as the one currently in the studio requires skill, connections and time. Working and networking and playing the shitty spots for shitty or no pay is hard, but eventually if you’re good you get turned on to cats who share a similar vision for music and its future.
The Bayonics are the ideal example of just such a case. A bunch of kids with hopes of musical careers and aspirations of leaving their mark deep in the streets of every city blessed with the evening fog. Their fist and as yet untitled album had been an ongoing process of trial and error. They started off with the humblest of beginnings, but quickly moved up the ranks and began to open in local sweet spots. Practice makes perfect, as the saying goes, and with time their sound got tighter and tighter. And the fan base grew.
Perseverance was good to the band. They began headlining and getting on more and more flyers. They have played such clubs as the Elbo Room, Red Devil Lounge, and the Down Low. Reputed spots for a good show, the band made the fullest of each of them. And their fan base grew. As I speak they are listed in the San Francisco chronicle pink pages. It wasn’t long before the band began to book studio time. But with two emcees, bass, percussion, drums, and an ample horn section shit took time. And time in the recording world it expensive. But it had to be done right.
Which leads us to the opener; why were all here. The here is ex’pression center for new media. The reason is to finish the over dubs for the album. Eight hours in the studio putting the final touches on the five tracks that the studio tech, D funk is working on.
The first in the lineup is Shorty. Shorty, the only girl in the Bayonics, is sitting in a big ass studio called the heptagon. Her only company is her headphone, her only means of verbal communication with the control room, and the congas she beats the shit out of. As the track plays back in her ear she begins to do her thing, and she does it well. Keeping it kinda simple and true to the original recording, but throwing in an ad lib here and there with flawless taste. Of course, every studio take requires a second take. And sometimes a studio recording requires a second and a third. Once again Shorty’s hands fly back and forth from one conga to the other. They respond by rocking back gently at her feet.
And there D funk sits, behind the angled Plexiglas; behind the digital flat screen and monitors; behind the digital sound board in the sound room. Watching all levels with a trained eye and making adjustments with the click of a button.
One song down, four to go.
The second to arrive is Ben. Quickly and painlessly entering the sound room to remove his keyboard from its protective coating and set up in front of the Plexiglas. Shortly after Shorty and D funk start in on the second track, ‘Primo’. Dreez and Heiro come into the picture, sporting their guest nametags and bringing with them so much energy and enthusiasm for the long evening. Dreez fell asleep within ten minutes, so did ben. Musicians sprawled out wherever space allowed inside the control room. Commonplace for ex’pression, really.
Heiro took second on the mic, quickly making himself at home in the sound sterile room. Mic check was swift, painless and easy. Recording focused on triples for the first verse in ‘Primo’, Heiro’s smooth ass voice the only thing coming out of the monitors in the control
. Then a problem showed its ugly ass head, as problems sometimes do in the digital booth. Heiro’s headphones were acting faulty, the pre recorded shit cutting in and out of his ears. Take after take eventually remove the problem, and after finally getting underway they were able to lay down the finesse. Communication between control room and booth identify shortcomings, and after the first take and playback Heiro spits out perfection.