Much of my music production time is spent making tiny changes, often because I can’t figure what more significant thing I need to do.
So I go small.
Here’s the scene: the piece is just okay, and progress on it is just okay, and the finished thing may too be destined to be just okay. But now the game’s on to make the music better than its present state of just okayness. The question is how? I sense that the music is missing something fundamental. What’s missing is not as simple as a “B” section or yet another part that fits just so. What I need to do is what I don’t yet know how to do—like somehow melt down the music into a few form, or make it disintegrate, or multiply itself, or distill it further. While my materials are better than ok (I like the sounds), they’re being held back than my just okay treatments of them.
When I listen through the music I have so far, I’m confronted with two layers of action. There’s the individual tracks with their melodies, chords, rhythms, and timbres. The tracks are rather static in that they maintain a coherent identity over the time of the piece. There’s also the processes which these tracks undergo, whether it’s a set of chords arranged into a sequence, the routing of a sound through effects, or the staggering of multiple drum parts to make more complex composite patterns. My most essential task might be to devise sensible meeting points between the tracks as they sound right now and the processes they could undergo to sound different. In other words, I’m trying to build an optimal form for my content.
Not surprisingly, there are no manuals to tell a producer how to approach this ongoing quandary that is essential to the production craft. There are tricks and techniques, but no hard and fast rules. There are moves that have worked in the past, but these moves aren’t necessarily relevant to the present. There are ways to make “cool sounds” but rarely are such sounds ends in themselves. There are strategies used on famous recordings, but repeating them is no surefire route to solving your unique production issues. The best way to learn how build an optimal form for your content is by trying out as many different things as you have the patience to try in order to hear how they sound. Even this doesn’t guarantee success, but it will help you gradually develop your vocabulary of production moves.
And yet, knowing moves is not enough. What you need above all is a general sense of the effect you seek to create. Some producers want a relentlessly bangin’ beat that never varies, while others seek amorphous ambient halos that refuse to commit to a key, let alone a melody. For me, I often search for a music that is both comfortable with being still, yet is also on the move for variations. (Note: be weary of what a musician says about his/her own music—they may just be talking about themselves.) With regards to my just-okay piece, I find it not nearly enchanting enough, or even enchanting at all. It sounds too obvious and it leaves little to my imagination. Surely I can do better than this by altering what I have?
Finally, even if you know the general effect you want to create, there’s never a one-to-one relationship between a production process and a resulting sound that could be perfect for your needs. (Music production is often fascinatingly nonlinear in this way. One way forward is to simply make many tiny changes to the music—that is, to progress it through tinkering on the micro-scale. Tinkering gradually moves you towards the general effect you want. I think of this methodology like hedging a bet about the direction of the piece. My bet is that the effect that I’m chasing after probably won’t be the result of doing one thing, but rather the result of doing of many. My tinkering changes are cumulative, and I’m betting that as they accumulate they just might, at some point, bring me to where I would like to go.
Music is a scent
you catch walking down the street
corn over coals:
a dock on a lake
jumping into dark water
long past summer
from smoke in the air.
“Underneath that odd veneer of mainstream schizophrenia, subgenres were splitting and dividing like brain-tumor cells. Enabled by recording and sampling technologies that eroded any semblance of cultural cohesion, forecasts of the future and pieces of the past were mixing into an unrecognizable new era.”
– Roy Christopher, Dead Precedents, p. 18 (2019)
As I teach myself how to program rhythms that I enjoy listening to, I’ve learned some lessons that might interest the musicians among my readers. Lesson One: the most efficient way to program a rhythm is to play it. You can play it all at once, as I do, one part at a time, or however you want, but some form of tapping pads on a MIDI drum controller or the keys of a keyboard is, I think, the most robust methodology for getting a rhythm down. Electronic music is already mediated enough by layers of technology, so why not keep things human as long as possible?
Playing a rhythm to record it has several benefits besides quickly bringing you from inspiration to MIDI data. First, it literally gets you playing. Ten times out of ten tries my ideas materialize only after I’ve been playing around for a while—trying stuff out, experimenting, making mistakes, trying again, trying to understand what the music needs. With drum programming, I have to stand there, tapping and auditioning different sounds in different patterns before anything “occurs” to me. Usually what happens is that one constellation of sounds and rhythms coalesces into being a fit for what I’m aiming to do. This sound/rhythm constellation tends to be catchy and challenging, yet still fun to play—in other words, it has all the ingredients for becoming an addictive motor pattern. I might try some variations on it, though I usually don’t get too far because I’m worried I’ll forget how to play the basic rhythm. So I hit record and play.
A second benefit of playing a rhythm to program it is that it captures all of your timing nuances—both good (i.e. intended) and bad (i.e. not intended). Even when I record to a click or previously recorded tracks (or both), my timing constantly fluctuates in little ways. It takes concentration to stay “in the pocket” as drummers say. And even though I know I can go back later and correct my timing errors, I don’t want to do that because that’s an extra step and I would prefer to nail it in one take. Also, correcting the notes so that they fall on the nearest main pulse or subdivision of that pulse, a process known as Quantization, opens up potential problems. If nothing else in the music is Quantized, why should the beat be? A third benefit of playing a rhythm is you can perform it for the duration of the piece. Even if a piece may never need a beat throughout, I’ll play my part idea from the beginning to the end. This gives me time to get into a flow, challenges me to maintain the intensity for the duration of the piece, and invites me to try out variations as I go. This last idea has led to on the spot decisions to deconstruct a beat: the closer I get to the end of the piece, the more I take notes out and make the pattern more and more spare until there’s almost nothing left. Who says beats have to stay the same way all the time?
Lesson Two: layer your rhythms. I often begin with one kit or collection of sounds, record a part with that, then go back a record a second kit, and sometimes a third kit. Layering rhythms ratchets up the excitement level of the music, because now you’re responding to the beats you’ve already recorded and you can feed off of that. (For example, you can take a call and response approach to layering sounds.) It’s often while layering a second part that the first part’s identity is revealed. Trying to drum something catchy on top of what I think is already catchy holds a promise of a mega-catchy composite rhythm. Okay, maybe not mega-catchy, but at least a rhythm greater than the sum of its layered parts.
Lesson Three: alter the sounds of your rhythms. Once I have one or two parts in place, I make quick adjustments to pitch and timbre. Is that hi hat grating? Raise its pitch into a higher register. If a kick drum is a mere thud, mellow and detune it so that you feel it more. These kinds of adjustments can be done in minutes and it’s imperative to work fast because you want to intuitively shape what you have to sound more cohesive. As with everything else in the digital realm, you can always go back later and continue tweaking, but why not commit to a set of relationships right now? Altering your rhythms’ sounds can also be done with effects, and here you have hundreds of options. What has worked best for me is to automate whatever effects I use so that their presence is felt in gradual and subtle rather than abrupt and obvious ways. With effects, a gentle hand is key. At least that’s my preference.
Lesson Four: ruthlessly edit your rhythms. I’ll begin by muting entire sections of beats, or staggering entrances of various beat layers so that everything isn’t happening at the same time. Next, even though I played each part competently, the patterns are still rife with inconsistencies and other irritations that need to be addressed. My editing doesn’t square off beats so they are perfectly on, but rather removes hits that are sticking out and needlessly calling attention to themselves. A rhythm always sings more when you delete some of its hits.
One by-product of working with rhythms that you played yourself is that you get to know them well, the same way you get to know a chord progression or a melody. The more you hear your rhythm soundscape’s parts in isolation and in combination, the better positioned you are to make ever smaller adjustments to get the parts to sit just so. With your played beats, as with the track as a whole, you’re working towards making everything interact so smoothly and thoughtfully that the music radiates synergy and sounds inevitable.
“Forgetting is a dynamic ability, crucial to memory retrieval, mental stability and maintaining one’s sense of identity. That’s because remembering is a dynamic process. At a biochemical level, memories are not pulled from the shelf like stored videos but pieced together — reconstructed — by the brain.”
“Though the book fails in the ways it must, it succeeds where others have failed, in its ability to imbue its failure with its own blend of artifice and truth, cliché and possibility, openness and closedness, creating something that may prove to be classic.”