Did you survive the total eclipse of the sun? Well, if you’re reading this right now, chances are the answer is yes. Now that we’ve fully recovered from that harrowing experience, the time is right to talk about music. (As the killer probe Nomad said on classic Star Trek, “Think about music…”)
Let’s face it – albums are never easy. They require time, patience, and great care, not to mention a crap load of luck. Of course, that dynamic is not exclusive to Big Green. What sets us apart is our process for completing an album. What process, you may ask? Allow me to offer you a brief look under the hood of this smooth-running machine.
I’ve written at length in previous posts about how mother-effing slow we are. And while sloth may be our secret sauce, here are three key elements that go into building a Big Green album:
1. Specific Gravity
While it’s kind of hard to measure, we like to ensure that our songs maintain a high level of density relative to that of water. Often that process prompts us to add strings, horn sections, chunky guitars, or over-driven organ parts. We come up with arrangements, track them, then burn a rough mix to CD-R. If we drop the disc in a bucket of water and it bobs to the surface, we know our work is not done.
2. Valence
As we record a song, we ask ourselves, “How well will this song bind with other songs on the same album?” After noodling this for a few minutes, we try to put some concrete numbers together. We usually start with the total number of tracks on our last album (in this case, Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick had 21). From that number, we subtract the number of valence electrons associated with a specific track. (Note: if you try this at home, you may need to borrow an electron microscope.)
3. Lyric Intelligibility
Hey, we’ve all been there, right? You listen to a song for a year, a decade, three decades, then one day you discover you’ve misinterpreted the lyrics. Instead of “There’s a bathroom on the right”, he’s singing “There’s a bad moon on the rise”. Well, here at Big Green, we try to keep that to a minimum. And when I say minimum, I mean a minimum of thirty instances per album. Sure, it takes work, but the more you confuse people, the more memorable you’ll be.
Stream Our Asses
Hey, don’t forget – you can find Big Green’s full catalog on many (if not all) of the major music streaming platforms, including:
Add us to your playlists!
(Image by Julien BLOT from Pixabay)
It took a couple of years, but at some point we moved up to a Panasonic audio cassette deck, the kind that you would use in a home stereo system. We used that and a couple of mics to record ourselves playing in the living room, etc. (Excerpts of those sessions made it on to Matt’s very early compilation, “The Todd Family Chronicles”.) Matt got a second deck and started bouncing tracks, overdubbing, then around 1985 he bought his first cassette portastudio. That kind of took us to a different place musically, though where that place is, I’m not entirely certain. As we could, we got better gear, but our songwriting and recording process has remained about the same as it was with that first portastudio.
Right now we’re kind of winging it, I admit … though that’s a bit more considered a state than we’re usually in during recording sessions. I boot up the new system, punch a few keys, then start playing whatever instrument is called for – piano, sousaphone, kazoo, triangle, whatever – and realize a few moments later that nothing has been captured. Rinse and repeat. I need a team of scientists! And I don’t mean mad scientists – we’re all set on that score. If we were to ask Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, to reconfigure our studio, we would end up with something on the order of what Magic Alex threw together for the Beatles back in the Apple Records days, i.e., a decorative, non-functional studio full of flashing lights with a speaker for every track and other non sequitur features.
Must be a reason that sound comes out of the speakers when you play our recordings. All I know is that we make noises, put them into machines, and voila. Maybe Mitch Macaphee goes in there after we’re done and fiddles around with the sound molecules, perhaps in hopes of precipitating some kind of sonic explosion. Perhaps not. (I know that there’s usually an subsequent economic explosion, or implosion, to put the matter more precisely.)
Of course, we’re building them stick by stick, using the usual bailing wire, string, tape, toothpaste, and whatever else is handy. And, well … they sound it. These are homespun recordings, my friend. We’re not riding over to the Record Plant and laying down some serious tracks. No, sir … we march straight down to the hammer mill basement and bang on those pots and pans. We tune up the tired old strings on Matt’s Rickenbacher bass and start thumping along, hollering into distressed old condenser mics, cupping my superannuated headphones to our ears. Not a lot of nuances, friends. Not hardly.