wom
20-09-2007, 16:03
Πρόσφατα οι ΝΥ Times δημοσίευσαν συνέντευξη περί Rick Rubin.
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ΥΓ επίτηδες στο M.D και όχι στο G.D
The Music Man
By LYNN HIRSCHBERG
Published: NY TIMES, September 2, 2007
Rick Rubin is listening. A song by a new band called the Gossip is playing,
and he is concentrating. He appears to be in a trance. His eyes are tightly
closed and he is swaying back and forth to the beat, trying at once to hear
what is right and wrong about the music. Rubin, who resembles a medium-size
bear with a long, gray beard, is curled into the corner of a tufted velvet couch in
the library of a house he owns but where he no longer lives. This three-story
1923 Spanish villa steeped in music history — Johnny Cash recorded in the
basement studio; Jakob Dylan is recording a solo album there now — is used
by Rubin for meetings. And ever since May, when he officially became co-head
of Columbia Records, Rubin has been having nearly constant meetings.
Beginning in 1984, when he started Def Jam Recordings, until his more recent
occupation as a career-transforming, chart-topping, Grammy Award-winning
producer for dozens of artists, as diverse as the Dixie Chicks, Slayer, Red Hot
Chili Peppers and Neil Diamond, Rubin, who is 44, has never gone to an office
of any kind. One of his conditions for taking the job at Sony, which owns
Columbia, was that he wouldn't be required to have a desk or a phone in any of
the corporate outposts. That wasn't a problem: Columbia didn't want Rubin to
punch a clock. It wanted him to save the company. And just maybe the record
business.
What that means, most of all, is that the company wants him to listen. It is
Columbia's belief that Rubin will hear the answers in the music — that he will
find the solution to its ever-increasing woes. The mighty music business is in
free fall — it has lost control of radio; retail outlets like Tower Records have
shut down; MTV rarely broadcasts music videos; and the once lucrative album
market has been overshadowed by downloaded singles, which mainly benefits
Apple. "The music business, as a whole, has lost its faith in content," David
Geffen, the legendary music mogul, told me recently. "Only 10 years ago,
companies wanted to make records, presumably good records, and see if they
sold. But panic has set in, and now it's no longer about making music, it's all
about how to sell music. And there's no clear answer about how to fix that
problem. But I still believe that the top priority at any record company has to be
coming up with great music. And for that reason, Sony was very smart to hire
Rick."
Though Rubin maintains that his intention is simply to hear music with the
fresh ears of a true fan, he has built his reputation on the simultaneously
mystical and entirely decisive way he listens to a song. As the Gossip, which
is fronted by a large, raucous woman named Beth Ditto, shouts to a stop,
Rubin opens his eyes and nods yes. This is the first new band signed to
Columbia that he has been enthralled by, but he is not yet sure how to
organize the Gossip's future. "Let's hear something else," Rubin says to Kevin
Kusatsu, who would, at any other record company, be called an A & R
executive. (Traditionally, A & R executives spot, woo, recruit and oversee the
talent of a record company.) "We don't have any titles at the new Columbia,"
Rubin explains, as Kusatsu, the first person Rubin hired, slips a disc out of its
sleeve. "I don't want to create a new hierarchy to replace the old hierarchy."
Rubin, wearing his usual uniform of loose khaki pants and billowing white
T-shirt, his sunglasses in his pocket, his feet bare, fingers a string of lapis
lazuli Buddhist prayer beads, believed to bring wisdom to the wearer. Since
Rubin's beard and hair nearly cover his face, his voice, which is soft and
reassuring, becomes that much more vivid. He seems to be one with the room,
which is lined in floor-to-ceiling books, most of which are of a spiritual nature,
whether about Buddhism, the Bible or New Age quests for enlightenment. The
library and the house are filled with religious iconography mixed with mementos
from the world of pop. A massive brass Buddha is flanked by equally enormous
speakers; vintage cardboard cutouts of John, Paul, George and Ringo circa
"Help!" are placed around a multiarmed statue of Vishnu. On a low table, there
are crystals and an old RadioShack cassette recorder that Rubin uses to listen
to demo tapes; a framed photo of Jim Morrison stares at a crystal ball. In
Rubin's world, music and spirituality collide.
"That's why they call him a guru," Natalie Maines, the lead singer of the Dixie
Chicks, explained to me in August, calling from her home in Los Angeles.
Maines, who has been with the label since 1997, first worked with Rubin in
2004. "At first, I didn't know if I was down with all that guru stuff. I thought,
We're making a record — I don't want to be converted. But Rick's spirituality
has mostly to do with his own sense of self. When it comes to the music, he's
so sure of his opinion that you become sure of his opinion, too. And isn't that
what gurus do? They know how to say the right things at the right time and get
the best out of you."
Kusatsu, who has elaborate tattoos on both forearms and a match stuck
behind his ear, puts the CD into Rubin's wireless system. This is the fourth
male singer-songwriter with an acoustic guitar that Rubin has heard today. The
music is heartfelt, spare, poetic. "There were a lot of girls in the audience,"
Kusatsu says as the track begins. Rubin closes his eyes and gently rocks
back and forth. His hands are resting on his stomach, and he seems to be
almost meditating. "Everything I do," Rubin told me earlier, "whether it's
producing, or signing an artist, always starts with the songs. When I'm
listening, I'm looking for a balance that you could see in anything. Whether it's
a great painting or a building or a sunset. There's just a natural human element
to a great song that feels immediately satisfying. I like the song to create a
mood."
He also seeks a melody. As a kid growing up in Lido Beach, on New York's
Long Island, Rubin loved the Beatles. "I never really liked the Stones," he said.
"Although, I loved the Monkees — they had all the best songwriters." Through
his passion for the Beatles, he became fascinated by the seductive, addictive
power of songs. From the first hip-hop records he produced for L L Cool J and
the Beastie Boys, he insisted on classic song structure. "Before Def Jam,
hip-hop records were typically really long, and they rarely had a hook," he
continued. "Those songs didn't deliver in the way the Beatles did. By making
our rap records sound more like pop songs, we changed the form. And we sold
a lot of records." The Beastie Boys' "Licensed to Ill" (released in 1986) went on
to sell what was then an astonishing four million plus records; earlier that year,
"Walk This Way," which combined Run-D.M.C. and Aerosmith, was the first
crossover rap single and revitalized Aerosmith's career. Rubin masterminded
both.
Whenever he agrees to produce an album, Rubin scrutinizes the songs before
going into the studio. Currently, he is producing records for the hard rock band
Metallica, the nerd power-pop band Weezer (it is part of his deal with Columbia
that he can produce albums for acts that are not signed to the label) and the
legendary Neil Diamond. At the moment, Metallica is touring in Europe,
Weezer is writing a new batch of songs and Diamond has just started in the
studio. Rubin works slowly — it can take him years to finish an album. "A lot of
that is because of the songs," Rubin explained. "I try to get the artist to feel
like they are writing songs for the ages rather than songs for an album. As they
write, they come over and play the songs for me. For some reason, most
people will write 10 songs and think, That's enough for a record, I'm done.
When they play the songs for me, invariably the last two songs they've written
are the best. I'll then say, 'You have two songs, go back and write eight more.' "
His responses are instant, specific and constructively definitive. "He doesn't
even take notes," Maines recalled. "He listens with his eyes closed, presses
'pause' and then says, 'You need another chorus,' or 'There isn't enough of a
bridge.' He's really precise, and you go back to work." In the early Metallica
sessions, Rubin has been exacting about different drum sounds. "Lars" —
Ulrich, the drummer — "will play two things for me, and I'll say, 'This one is
great and that one is terrible,' " Rubin recalled. "Lars will say: 'How do you
know? They both sound good to me.' Well, I just know. The right sound
reaches its hand out and finds its way. So much of what I do is just being
present and listening for that right sound."
Back in the library, the singer-songwriter's demo is ending. Rubin opens his
eyes, blinks and says to Kusatsu: "We may have found one. Does he have any
other songs I can hear?" While Kusatsu cues up the next sampling, Rubin
texts an assistant on his BlackBerry. Within minutes, a chocolate protein drink
is brought to him. As Rubin sips, he listens to the next track — a derivative,
meandering song that drones like early Dylan without the lyric sophistication.
With his eyes closed, Rubin begins to shake his head slowly. He looks
disappointed. "And you wonder why people don't buy CDs anymore," Rubin
says. "One song is great and the other is. . . . "
His voice trails off. As a producer or the head of a small independent label,
Rubin could afford to be very particular. But Columbia, which is the home of
established stars like Bruce, Beyonc
Eάν οι κανόνες του forum επιτρέπουν αναδημοσίευση ...
ΥΓ επίτηδες στο M.D και όχι στο G.D
The Music Man
By LYNN HIRSCHBERG
Published: NY TIMES, September 2, 2007
Rick Rubin is listening. A song by a new band called the Gossip is playing,
and he is concentrating. He appears to be in a trance. His eyes are tightly
closed and he is swaying back and forth to the beat, trying at once to hear
what is right and wrong about the music. Rubin, who resembles a medium-size
bear with a long, gray beard, is curled into the corner of a tufted velvet couch in
the library of a house he owns but where he no longer lives. This three-story
1923 Spanish villa steeped in music history — Johnny Cash recorded in the
basement studio; Jakob Dylan is recording a solo album there now — is used
by Rubin for meetings. And ever since May, when he officially became co-head
of Columbia Records, Rubin has been having nearly constant meetings.
Beginning in 1984, when he started Def Jam Recordings, until his more recent
occupation as a career-transforming, chart-topping, Grammy Award-winning
producer for dozens of artists, as diverse as the Dixie Chicks, Slayer, Red Hot
Chili Peppers and Neil Diamond, Rubin, who is 44, has never gone to an office
of any kind. One of his conditions for taking the job at Sony, which owns
Columbia, was that he wouldn't be required to have a desk or a phone in any of
the corporate outposts. That wasn't a problem: Columbia didn't want Rubin to
punch a clock. It wanted him to save the company. And just maybe the record
business.
What that means, most of all, is that the company wants him to listen. It is
Columbia's belief that Rubin will hear the answers in the music — that he will
find the solution to its ever-increasing woes. The mighty music business is in
free fall — it has lost control of radio; retail outlets like Tower Records have
shut down; MTV rarely broadcasts music videos; and the once lucrative album
market has been overshadowed by downloaded singles, which mainly benefits
Apple. "The music business, as a whole, has lost its faith in content," David
Geffen, the legendary music mogul, told me recently. "Only 10 years ago,
companies wanted to make records, presumably good records, and see if they
sold. But panic has set in, and now it's no longer about making music, it's all
about how to sell music. And there's no clear answer about how to fix that
problem. But I still believe that the top priority at any record company has to be
coming up with great music. And for that reason, Sony was very smart to hire
Rick."
Though Rubin maintains that his intention is simply to hear music with the
fresh ears of a true fan, he has built his reputation on the simultaneously
mystical and entirely decisive way he listens to a song. As the Gossip, which
is fronted by a large, raucous woman named Beth Ditto, shouts to a stop,
Rubin opens his eyes and nods yes. This is the first new band signed to
Columbia that he has been enthralled by, but he is not yet sure how to
organize the Gossip's future. "Let's hear something else," Rubin says to Kevin
Kusatsu, who would, at any other record company, be called an A & R
executive. (Traditionally, A & R executives spot, woo, recruit and oversee the
talent of a record company.) "We don't have any titles at the new Columbia,"
Rubin explains, as Kusatsu, the first person Rubin hired, slips a disc out of its
sleeve. "I don't want to create a new hierarchy to replace the old hierarchy."
Rubin, wearing his usual uniform of loose khaki pants and billowing white
T-shirt, his sunglasses in his pocket, his feet bare, fingers a string of lapis
lazuli Buddhist prayer beads, believed to bring wisdom to the wearer. Since
Rubin's beard and hair nearly cover his face, his voice, which is soft and
reassuring, becomes that much more vivid. He seems to be one with the room,
which is lined in floor-to-ceiling books, most of which are of a spiritual nature,
whether about Buddhism, the Bible or New Age quests for enlightenment. The
library and the house are filled with religious iconography mixed with mementos
from the world of pop. A massive brass Buddha is flanked by equally enormous
speakers; vintage cardboard cutouts of John, Paul, George and Ringo circa
"Help!" are placed around a multiarmed statue of Vishnu. On a low table, there
are crystals and an old RadioShack cassette recorder that Rubin uses to listen
to demo tapes; a framed photo of Jim Morrison stares at a crystal ball. In
Rubin's world, music and spirituality collide.
"That's why they call him a guru," Natalie Maines, the lead singer of the Dixie
Chicks, explained to me in August, calling from her home in Los Angeles.
Maines, who has been with the label since 1997, first worked with Rubin in
2004. "At first, I didn't know if I was down with all that guru stuff. I thought,
We're making a record — I don't want to be converted. But Rick's spirituality
has mostly to do with his own sense of self. When it comes to the music, he's
so sure of his opinion that you become sure of his opinion, too. And isn't that
what gurus do? They know how to say the right things at the right time and get
the best out of you."
Kusatsu, who has elaborate tattoos on both forearms and a match stuck
behind his ear, puts the CD into Rubin's wireless system. This is the fourth
male singer-songwriter with an acoustic guitar that Rubin has heard today. The
music is heartfelt, spare, poetic. "There were a lot of girls in the audience,"
Kusatsu says as the track begins. Rubin closes his eyes and gently rocks
back and forth. His hands are resting on his stomach, and he seems to be
almost meditating. "Everything I do," Rubin told me earlier, "whether it's
producing, or signing an artist, always starts with the songs. When I'm
listening, I'm looking for a balance that you could see in anything. Whether it's
a great painting or a building or a sunset. There's just a natural human element
to a great song that feels immediately satisfying. I like the song to create a
mood."
He also seeks a melody. As a kid growing up in Lido Beach, on New York's
Long Island, Rubin loved the Beatles. "I never really liked the Stones," he said.
"Although, I loved the Monkees — they had all the best songwriters." Through
his passion for the Beatles, he became fascinated by the seductive, addictive
power of songs. From the first hip-hop records he produced for L L Cool J and
the Beastie Boys, he insisted on classic song structure. "Before Def Jam,
hip-hop records were typically really long, and they rarely had a hook," he
continued. "Those songs didn't deliver in the way the Beatles did. By making
our rap records sound more like pop songs, we changed the form. And we sold
a lot of records." The Beastie Boys' "Licensed to Ill" (released in 1986) went on
to sell what was then an astonishing four million plus records; earlier that year,
"Walk This Way," which combined Run-D.M.C. and Aerosmith, was the first
crossover rap single and revitalized Aerosmith's career. Rubin masterminded
both.
Whenever he agrees to produce an album, Rubin scrutinizes the songs before
going into the studio. Currently, he is producing records for the hard rock band
Metallica, the nerd power-pop band Weezer (it is part of his deal with Columbia
that he can produce albums for acts that are not signed to the label) and the
legendary Neil Diamond. At the moment, Metallica is touring in Europe,
Weezer is writing a new batch of songs and Diamond has just started in the
studio. Rubin works slowly — it can take him years to finish an album. "A lot of
that is because of the songs," Rubin explained. "I try to get the artist to feel
like they are writing songs for the ages rather than songs for an album. As they
write, they come over and play the songs for me. For some reason, most
people will write 10 songs and think, That's enough for a record, I'm done.
When they play the songs for me, invariably the last two songs they've written
are the best. I'll then say, 'You have two songs, go back and write eight more.' "
His responses are instant, specific and constructively definitive. "He doesn't
even take notes," Maines recalled. "He listens with his eyes closed, presses
'pause' and then says, 'You need another chorus,' or 'There isn't enough of a
bridge.' He's really precise, and you go back to work." In the early Metallica
sessions, Rubin has been exacting about different drum sounds. "Lars" —
Ulrich, the drummer — "will play two things for me, and I'll say, 'This one is
great and that one is terrible,' " Rubin recalled. "Lars will say: 'How do you
know? They both sound good to me.' Well, I just know. The right sound
reaches its hand out and finds its way. So much of what I do is just being
present and listening for that right sound."
Back in the library, the singer-songwriter's demo is ending. Rubin opens his
eyes, blinks and says to Kusatsu: "We may have found one. Does he have any
other songs I can hear?" While Kusatsu cues up the next sampling, Rubin
texts an assistant on his BlackBerry. Within minutes, a chocolate protein drink
is brought to him. As Rubin sips, he listens to the next track — a derivative,
meandering song that drones like early Dylan without the lyric sophistication.
With his eyes closed, Rubin begins to shake his head slowly. He looks
disappointed. "And you wonder why people don't buy CDs anymore," Rubin
says. "One song is great and the other is. . . . "
His voice trails off. As a producer or the head of a small independent label,
Rubin could afford to be very particular. But Columbia, which is the home of
established stars like Bruce, Beyonc