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"They teach you there's a boundary line in music. But, man, there's no boundary line to art."
--Charlie Parker
"If it's good then it sounds like what it's supposed to sound like, not like somebody else's record."
--Tim Mooney
Since the mastering date of my record The Graceless Age is quickly approaching (May 5th), it occurred to me that discussing the two people (aside from myself) most responsible for the record was a novel idea. Honestly, it's more than a novel idea as most of the time the engineers and producers receive little credit for the music they craft (outside of the bullshit world of musician-speak). The relationship between musician and engineer/producer necessarily becomes blurry (if you're doing it right) and the record created is the product of a neurotic relationship between two people intent on creating art (or, even better than that, rock and roll). It's a battlefield, a war, a minefield of opinions... And when the producer is as strong-willed as the musician, unless it all implodes, sometimes magical shit happens.
Tim Mooney is perhaps the most aggravating man alive. He is the Marcus Aurelius of recording; the Clint Eastwood of the mixing board. I am a rambling and easily bored walking bag of neurosis. Though Tim is one of my dearest friends (inside and outside of the studio) and we share very similar musical aesthetics, psychically we couldn't be more different. This is 75% of why we work so well together.
Let me elaborate: over the last 5 years since I began working with Mr. Mooney (whom I have desperately tried to create an obnoxiously sassy nickname for - any ideas?) I have never once heard him say things like "that's brilliant" or "you absolutely got it on that take, man" or "I think this record is gonna be truly beautiful". Instead, you only hear things like "that was good" and "wanna come in [the control room] and hear it" or "that was fine". All spoken with no emotion, no difference in inflection, no Oscar Wilde-ish romanticism. Over the last five years I've learned that the previously mentioned "Mooney-isms" are actually high praise. On occasion (and especially if you're a misguided and often wrong reader of conversational subtext like myself) you catch on to the nuances. If he raises the pitch of the last two words of "that could be good" it means "that was shit". If he says "I dunno, wanna hear it back [while cocking his head a little to the left]?" that means you should put a bag over your head and punch yourself in your own face. "That was better" means "it still isn't good enough". But if he says " wanna come in and hear it back" it means "that was spot on, you nailed it". If he says he went home, listened to the rough mix, and has a couple of ideas it means he fucking loves the song. For the hopelessly emotionally needy like myself, this can be incredibly aggravating. Eventually the uncontrollable waves of neurosis began to lap against my brain.
It all began with World Without End, a record I had convinced myself was good before we even started recording (I was still green to the whole studio thing to some extent - everything still sounded amazing to me on big studio monitors). I pretty much made it through that record without losing my shit. I didn't know at the time that I was a little Dutch dude unconsciously holding my finger in the dyke to stop the flow of madness.
With The Gunplay EP the shit began to hit the fan. Like a little kid who'll take any kind of attention they can get, when I became bored during mixing I would act like I was humping the back of Tim's head while he had his hands on the mixing board, desperately trying to ignore me. He could only contain his anger for 15 minutes or so at a time. When he stopped the playback and told me to cut it out the first time I was thrilled. I'd never felt such accomplishment. Needless to say, I faux-humped the back of his head daily (until he became seriously furious) for the rest of the mixing process. I felt triumphant and guilty all at once. It was like getting one over on my mom and then getting grounded. Worth it? I still don't know (about Tim or Tootie).
Soon after recording The Gunplay EP Chuck Prophet and I came up with the idea to record Waylon Jennings' Dreaming My Dreams from top to bottom in a far kinkier way. It was all done completely live and there were a minimum of five people in the live room at any given time. all playing together. No overdubs. J.J. Weisler was the engineer. Tim's only duty was to play drums. Being only a guitar player in the midst of actually talented guitar players (Chuck and Max Butler) my own self-loathing and paranoia reached it's pinnacle. The live headphone mix was muddy as hell because so much was going on. I began to believe my guitar was being intentionally cut out of the mix. I started saying I couldn't hear it between takes. Finally, mid take, I threw them off and started screaming "I can't hear my fucking guitar! I can hear everybody else. Turn my fucking guitar up! Are y'all even recording it, assholes?!?!". Chuck went back to the control room to talk to J.J. and see if it could be brought up. Chuck said, "don't worry, I can't hear mine either". I called him a liar. Tim got up and I assumed he was taking a piss. A year later Chuck told me Tim had in fact come into the control room and told Chuck not to try to turn up my guitar or to baby me and told him, "this is good for John". When Chuck told me that I knew Tim loved me. I had already fallen for him. Head over Redwings. Schoolgirl shit. It was still later that I heard the stories. Never from Tim himself, though I'd always ask him to tell me the whole story himself later.
At one point during the recording of Brinkley, Ark. & Other Assorted Love Songs I simply decided to light into Tim. I told him he was a dick, told him he was disconnected, told him I respected him and he showed no respect for me. I did all this in front of the studio intern. Tim smoked and barely avoided laughing. I told him he wasn't responsible for shit, that I was the tortured genius here (wow, what a lame and obvious sign of self-hatred and the deep-seated belief that I'm completely untalented), and that he needed to 'fess up to it. He needed to fucking TALK. I quit after about thirty minutes. We went back to mixing. The next day I told him I was sorry. He said, "Well maybe you just had to get it out. It's alright. I believe in ya.". I got pissed all over again. Why wouldn't he fight correctly? I sat for days wondering what was wrong with me. See? That's what Dr. Tim Freud does. Goob? Bad? I don't know. Thinking about it now I wonder if it's genius or if I should be upset still. That's the brilliance of it all with Tim: total ambiguity.
Here are a few of the more interesting tidbits. I will now disclose a few things in the hope that it doesn't embarrass the Mooney. At the same time I hope it does. Either way he'll have to get emotional with me.
1. Tim dated a pre-Cobain pre-completely-psycho Courtney Love. At the time they lived in Portland. They moved back to the Bay Area and were planning on living together. When Tim's momma met Courtney she told him in no uncertain terms that the bitch was crazy. Tim, always the family man (no shit - he loves his kid, his wife, and his parents and is a seriously involved father), listened to her and promptly dumped Courtney. Good move, as she mighta killed him later while dressed like Nancy and worse, he have seen Hole formed. I found out second hand at least a year after I'd known him.
2. Tim has been in a multitude of bands over the years. Since leaving American Music Club he has only played live with one person's projects - mine. When I figured that out I knew our marriage would make it through thick and thin. Tim has shared the stage with some of my heroes, namely The Clash, Bob Dylan, The Gun Club (while dating the slide guitar chick from that band), and The Bad Seeds. He never told me. He has played with an innumerable number of infamous people. You would know them all. Again, Tim never told me any of this. Others told me.
3. While at a show in England Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead, coming off the release of Pablo Honey, announced to a dismissive Tim that Radiohead had a new record coming out called The Bends and that they had intentionally written a song imitating American Music Club and, in particular, Tim's drum and percussion stylings. Those songs were Nice Dream and Planet Telex. Once again, The Mooney-a-nator DID NOT tell me this necessary to know information. And again, I found out from someone else and verified with Timbo later.
4. Timmy learned recording from Mitchell Froom via Tchad Blake. Holy fuck.
5. Perhaps this personifies him best: When a certain Memphis troubadour (who will remain unnamed) was recording a record in San Francisco and attempted to impress Tim by showing him Joe Chicarelli's phone number in his cell phone, Tim replied, "It's been in mine for too long too, but who'd wanna call that guy?" with absolute deadpan seriousness. Tim isn't a namedropper. He's also not a popular-music-making-people hater. He's an enigma. He simply doesn't care. Not "I don't give a fuck". Just doesn't care, either to impress or to insult. It's very frustrating. When I wanna get my hate on he'll kinda chuckle and talk about how it'll go away when I get older (which only makes me crazier). When I wanna talk about the same record over and over, though, he'll become as engaged as me.
.There's a shitload of other stories, but I'm afraid to embarrass the guy. You'll have to find them out for yourself. Or wait for someone to comment on this post and tell some more of 'em.....
Another important piece of understanding Tim comes from understanding his diet. Tim has retained his perfect indie rock fighting weight his entire adult life. He ingests almost solely Fritos and black coffee. Lots of Fritos and coffee. And even more cigarettes. I believe myself to be a heavy intake nicotine dude. I smoke and dip. I go through a can and a half of Skoal and 18 or so cigarettes a day. Tim, without causing himself bronchial distress, can smoke three times that many cigarettes in 12 hours. And he does, everytime we work together. But at home he only steps out to smoke occasionally. He can suffer self-abuse and endure self-inflicted pain more than anyone I've ever met (and not just for those reasons). He's the St. Joan of production, mixing an odd purity of self with non-self-aggrandizing martyrdom. If you order pizza he'll eat one piece. He'll eat a burger but no fries. He's never on a diet. He just doesn't eat anything regularly but Fritos and coffee. When it's a particuarly funky day in Mooneyland he'll spring for some Fifth Avenue candy bars, which only adds to the weirdness. Bob Frank loves to bring whole bean coffee to Tim. It seems to be the crux of their relationship, the bond that holds them together. They both light up over that first pot of new coffee, more so than they ever do while making music. I don't drink coffee. I have always felt left out.
I could describe the process of creating The Graceless Age now, I suppose. It's too involved and frankly too insane to discuss now. It's a post of it's own primarily made up of an interview Chuck Prophet did with me over the course of the recording of the record. Look for it four posts down the pike. Coming next is an audio post of a discussion between Tim and myself about Tim and myself. It is sure to entertain. Look for it Tuesday.
What I will say is this: without Tim everything I've written, every idea I've come up with, every note I've played in the studio wouldn't be what it's been. And, with no hint of arrogance, I can honestly say it's all been good. Though Tim will never tell you so. Certainly not if I'm in the room. Maybe he believes that by forcing humility; by forcing me to embrace my own self-loathing, I will do what I can do as well as I possibly can. Of course, that may all be based on my subtext reading Freudian bullshit. Tim's an enigma. I began in awe of him. I'm still foiled psychically by him. When he means nothing I look for what's hidden. When he means something I don't listen; I don't hear it. It's the neurotic mismatch that allows for the struggle. The struggle makes you bleed. And you have to bleed to make anything of any worth. How I'm allowed the struggle and the friendship I don't know, but I'm grateful for both.
You've read part one of this four part series. Up next is the previously mentioned audio of the discussion between time and myself. Next, look forward to part three, an in-depth profile of the equally strange and neurotic Kevin Cubbins, the man reasonable for the mixing of The Graceless Age. The final post, the hilarious part four, will consist of audio recordings of voicemail excerpts from Kevin to me, excerpts of emails between the two of us, and text messages sent back and forth between us.
Following this series, after the mastering date of May 5th, I will post (along with two streaming songs from the new record), the story of The Graceless Age with the interview between Chuck and myself and the opinions of both Tim and Kevin regarding the things I said in the interview. Honestly is not always the best policy, but sometimes it is the most hilarious. This is one of those times.
Until then, enjoy these Mooney-related youtube clips:
Tim as young and shirtless drummer with The Sleepers, playing the great "Sister Little":Tim Mooney is perhaps the most aggravating man alive. He is the Marcus Aurelius of recording; the Clint Eastwood of the mixing board. I am a rambling and easily bored walking bag of neurosis. Though Tim is one of my dearest friends (inside and outside of the studio) and we share very similar musical aesthetics, psychically we couldn't be more different. This is 75% of why we work so well together.
Let me elaborate: over the last 5 years since I began working with Mr. Mooney (whom I have desperately tried to create an obnoxiously sassy nickname for - any ideas?) I have never once heard him say things like "that's brilliant" or "you absolutely got it on that take, man" or "I think this record is gonna be truly beautiful". Instead, you only hear things like "that was good" and "wanna come in [the control room] and hear it" or "that was fine". All spoken with no emotion, no difference in inflection, no Oscar Wilde-ish romanticism. Over the last five years I've learned that the previously mentioned "Mooney-isms" are actually high praise. On occasion (and especially if you're a misguided and often wrong reader of conversational subtext like myself) you catch on to the nuances. If he raises the pitch of the last two words of "that could be good" it means "that was shit". If he says "I dunno, wanna hear it back [while cocking his head a little to the left]?" that means you should put a bag over your head and punch yourself in your own face. "That was better" means "it still isn't good enough". But if he says " wanna come in and hear it back" it means "that was spot on, you nailed it". If he says he went home, listened to the rough mix, and has a couple of ideas it means he fucking loves the song. For the hopelessly emotionally needy like myself, this can be incredibly aggravating. Eventually the uncontrollable waves of neurosis began to lap against my brain.
It all began with World Without End, a record I had convinced myself was good before we even started recording (I was still green to the whole studio thing to some extent - everything still sounded amazing to me on big studio monitors). I pretty much made it through that record without losing my shit. I didn't know at the time that I was a little Dutch dude unconsciously holding my finger in the dyke to stop the flow of madness.
With The Gunplay EP the shit began to hit the fan. Like a little kid who'll take any kind of attention they can get, when I became bored during mixing I would act like I was humping the back of Tim's head while he had his hands on the mixing board, desperately trying to ignore me. He could only contain his anger for 15 minutes or so at a time. When he stopped the playback and told me to cut it out the first time I was thrilled. I'd never felt such accomplishment. Needless to say, I faux-humped the back of his head daily (until he became seriously furious) for the rest of the mixing process. I felt triumphant and guilty all at once. It was like getting one over on my mom and then getting grounded. Worth it? I still don't know (about Tim or Tootie).
Soon after recording The Gunplay EP Chuck Prophet and I came up with the idea to record Waylon Jennings' Dreaming My Dreams from top to bottom in a far kinkier way. It was all done completely live and there were a minimum of five people in the live room at any given time. all playing together. No overdubs. J.J. Weisler was the engineer. Tim's only duty was to play drums. Being only a guitar player in the midst of actually talented guitar players (Chuck and Max Butler) my own self-loathing and paranoia reached it's pinnacle. The live headphone mix was muddy as hell because so much was going on. I began to believe my guitar was being intentionally cut out of the mix. I started saying I couldn't hear it between takes. Finally, mid take, I threw them off and started screaming "I can't hear my fucking guitar! I can hear everybody else. Turn my fucking guitar up! Are y'all even recording it, assholes?!?!". Chuck went back to the control room to talk to J.J. and see if it could be brought up. Chuck said, "don't worry, I can't hear mine either". I called him a liar. Tim got up and I assumed he was taking a piss. A year later Chuck told me Tim had in fact come into the control room and told Chuck not to try to turn up my guitar or to baby me and told him, "this is good for John". When Chuck told me that I knew Tim loved me. I had already fallen for him. Head over Redwings. Schoolgirl shit. It was still later that I heard the stories. Never from Tim himself, though I'd always ask him to tell me the whole story himself later.
At one point during the recording of Brinkley, Ark. & Other Assorted Love Songs I simply decided to light into Tim. I told him he was a dick, told him he was disconnected, told him I respected him and he showed no respect for me. I did all this in front of the studio intern. Tim smoked and barely avoided laughing. I told him he wasn't responsible for shit, that I was the tortured genius here (wow, what a lame and obvious sign of self-hatred and the deep-seated belief that I'm completely untalented), and that he needed to 'fess up to it. He needed to fucking TALK. I quit after about thirty minutes. We went back to mixing. The next day I told him I was sorry. He said, "Well maybe you just had to get it out. It's alright. I believe in ya.". I got pissed all over again. Why wouldn't he fight correctly? I sat for days wondering what was wrong with me. See? That's what Dr. Tim Freud does. Goob? Bad? I don't know. Thinking about it now I wonder if it's genius or if I should be upset still. That's the brilliance of it all with Tim: total ambiguity.
Here are a few of the more interesting tidbits. I will now disclose a few things in the hope that it doesn't embarrass the Mooney. At the same time I hope it does. Either way he'll have to get emotional with me.
1. Tim dated a pre-Cobain pre-completely-psycho Courtney Love. At the time they lived in Portland. They moved back to the Bay Area and were planning on living together. When Tim's momma met Courtney she told him in no uncertain terms that the bitch was crazy. Tim, always the family man (no shit - he loves his kid, his wife, and his parents and is a seriously involved father), listened to her and promptly dumped Courtney. Good move, as she mighta killed him later while dressed like Nancy and worse, he have seen Hole formed. I found out second hand at least a year after I'd known him.
2. Tim has been in a multitude of bands over the years. Since leaving American Music Club he has only played live with one person's projects - mine. When I figured that out I knew our marriage would make it through thick and thin. Tim has shared the stage with some of my heroes, namely The Clash, Bob Dylan, The Gun Club (while dating the slide guitar chick from that band), and The Bad Seeds. He never told me. He has played with an innumerable number of infamous people. You would know them all. Again, Tim never told me any of this. Others told me.
3. While at a show in England Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead, coming off the release of Pablo Honey, announced to a dismissive Tim that Radiohead had a new record coming out called The Bends and that they had intentionally written a song imitating American Music Club and, in particular, Tim's drum and percussion stylings. Those songs were Nice Dream and Planet Telex. Once again, The Mooney-a-nator DID NOT tell me this necessary to know information. And again, I found out from someone else and verified with Timbo later.
4. Timmy learned recording from Mitchell Froom via Tchad Blake. Holy fuck.
5. Perhaps this personifies him best: When a certain Memphis troubadour (who will remain unnamed) was recording a record in San Francisco and attempted to impress Tim by showing him Joe Chicarelli's phone number in his cell phone, Tim replied, "It's been in mine for too long too, but who'd wanna call that guy?" with absolute deadpan seriousness. Tim isn't a namedropper. He's also not a popular-music-making-people hater. He's an enigma. He simply doesn't care. Not "I don't give a fuck". Just doesn't care, either to impress or to insult. It's very frustrating. When I wanna get my hate on he'll kinda chuckle and talk about how it'll go away when I get older (which only makes me crazier). When I wanna talk about the same record over and over, though, he'll become as engaged as me.
.There's a shitload of other stories, but I'm afraid to embarrass the guy. You'll have to find them out for yourself. Or wait for someone to comment on this post and tell some more of 'em.....
Another important piece of understanding Tim comes from understanding his diet. Tim has retained his perfect indie rock fighting weight his entire adult life. He ingests almost solely Fritos and black coffee. Lots of Fritos and coffee. And even more cigarettes. I believe myself to be a heavy intake nicotine dude. I smoke and dip. I go through a can and a half of Skoal and 18 or so cigarettes a day. Tim, without causing himself bronchial distress, can smoke three times that many cigarettes in 12 hours. And he does, everytime we work together. But at home he only steps out to smoke occasionally. He can suffer self-abuse and endure self-inflicted pain more than anyone I've ever met (and not just for those reasons). He's the St. Joan of production, mixing an odd purity of self with non-self-aggrandizing martyrdom. If you order pizza he'll eat one piece. He'll eat a burger but no fries. He's never on a diet. He just doesn't eat anything regularly but Fritos and coffee. When it's a particuarly funky day in Mooneyland he'll spring for some Fifth Avenue candy bars, which only adds to the weirdness. Bob Frank loves to bring whole bean coffee to Tim. It seems to be the crux of their relationship, the bond that holds them together. They both light up over that first pot of new coffee, more so than they ever do while making music. I don't drink coffee. I have always felt left out.
I could describe the process of creating The Graceless Age now, I suppose. It's too involved and frankly too insane to discuss now. It's a post of it's own primarily made up of an interview Chuck Prophet did with me over the course of the recording of the record. Look for it four posts down the pike. Coming next is an audio post of a discussion between Tim and myself about Tim and myself. It is sure to entertain. Look for it Tuesday.
What I will say is this: without Tim everything I've written, every idea I've come up with, every note I've played in the studio wouldn't be what it's been. And, with no hint of arrogance, I can honestly say it's all been good. Though Tim will never tell you so. Certainly not if I'm in the room. Maybe he believes that by forcing humility; by forcing me to embrace my own self-loathing, I will do what I can do as well as I possibly can. Of course, that may all be based on my subtext reading Freudian bullshit. Tim's an enigma. I began in awe of him. I'm still foiled psychically by him. When he means nothing I look for what's hidden. When he means something I don't listen; I don't hear it. It's the neurotic mismatch that allows for the struggle. The struggle makes you bleed. And you have to bleed to make anything of any worth. How I'm allowed the struggle and the friendship I don't know, but I'm grateful for both.
You've read part one of this four part series. Up next is the previously mentioned audio of the discussion between time and myself. Next, look forward to part three, an in-depth profile of the equally strange and neurotic Kevin Cubbins, the man reasonable for the mixing of The Graceless Age. The final post, the hilarious part four, will consist of audio recordings of voicemail excerpts from Kevin to me, excerpts of emails between the two of us, and text messages sent back and forth between us.
Following this series, after the mastering date of May 5th, I will post (along with two streaming songs from the new record), the story of The Graceless Age with the interview between Chuck and myself and the opinions of both Tim and Kevin regarding the things I said in the interview. Honestly is not always the best policy, but sometimes it is the most hilarious. This is one of those times.
Until then, enjoy these Mooney-related youtube clips:
A ridiculous video made by some random dude for American Music Club's "Patriot's Heart", from the only American Music Club record produced and recorded by Tim (w/Tim on drums):
The video for "Boss Weatherford, 1933" off of Bob's and my record World Without End. It was produced and engineered by Tim, with Tim playing drums.
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