SESSION SHENANIGANS
The studio guitarist’s guide to happiness and personal fulfilment, as related by session ace Mitch Dalton. This month: Write Another Day.
Picture this. Our venue is a listed church in London’s highly desirable Hampstead, converted to provide a stunning recording facility comprising a magnificent hall with space to fit a symphony orchestra, a second Studio 1 with room for small chamber orchestra or big band, and numerous rooms arranged over three floors, suitable for post production, video editing, dubbing and pizza consumption. Among the many original features are the old pews that comprise the seating in the refectory, essential for praying that you possess funds to purchase NW3’s most expensive breakfast. Parking for 20 cars. Freehold. POA.
Your plucker enters this imposing arena; a brass plaque on the wall of the reception area commemorates the first recording sessions at the venue - The Son Of The Pink Panther, scored and conducted by maestro Henry Mancini. It’s a source of quiet satisfaction that I played on it. A turn to the left through the double doors takes me into The Hall, to be greeted by a vast array of music stands and mics, headphones and leads. An intimidating sight if you’re used to to a demo session with an organ trio. Soon the space will be filled with a 90-piece orchestra. I have the sense to be an hour and a half early, based on the experience of having been in Showbiz all day. It’s thus relatively easy to navigate my way to one of several acoustically sealed booths via the inconveniently arranged sliding glass doors. A nice recording assistant helps me in with a half a dozen instruments, an amp and the usual accessories. I’m in an isolation booth for two reasons, equal and opposite. It’s necessary to prevent my loud electric guitar from spilling into the many orchestral mics in the main room. Conversely, no one wants a cor anglais ruining my sensitive Spanish guitar interpretations. My cell for the week consists of a chair, a music stand, a set of headphones and a video screen with camera beamed at our conductor and orchestrator, the formidable Nick Dodds. If I crane my neck I can just pick out the back of Mr Dodds’ left ear through a sea of double basses. Hence the need to provide audio-visual assistance. On my stand is a folder containing music cues with snappy titles like '2M7' and '4M11(revised)'. I flick through the pad in cursory fashion. At least it’s in order. My main interest is to discover which of these compositions from the pen of David Arnold contains the magic word “Tacet”. The prospect of enforced idleness is a mixed blessing, breaking up concentration and necessitating recourse to the pages of Autocar or, should all else fail, Guitar Techniques. It’s also no bad thing to check the parts for any unusual suggested sound effects or instructions like “Detune fifth string b3rd”. to C# and play entire part up a
It’s now 10am. The protagonists are all in position. Mr Arnold is directing from the control room, flanked by Hollywood executives, copyists on standby, sound engineer and assistants. It’s tense. You can sense the pressure that comes with a hugely expensive movie, although I suspect the entire music budget would barely cover the cost of a single minute of the speedboat/ helicopter/space shuttle chase filmed in Kazakhstan. Such is life.
Mr Dodds counts us in, even though we are following a click track. And…we’re off. 1M1. Twenty seconds of top quality score writing, albeit with references to Bond films of yesteryear. Nick is the only individual in the room with a video screen but the orchestra needs only to follow the man with the white stick, employing a combination of peripheral vision and luck.
Now. Here’s the thing. You’d better play your part perfectly. The cue may be rehearsed once or twice, recorded half a dozen times, discussed, altered, amended, edited or even recorded in sections. And you’ll never know when the exclamation “Great! That was the one!” will ring out from the control room. There can be few more excruciating moments than to be forced to raise your hand and utter the words “I’m sorry Nick, I played a wrong note at bar 12.” The waves of contempt that emanate from the orchestra may be real or imaginary but it surely feels like the former. But all is not lost. Many is the time when one is saved by the tubular bell. Or the strings. Before you have owned up to your own mis-deeds you may get lucky and hear the sweet sound of “We need to go again. The brass section wasn’t together half way through…”
Of course, at some point in the week, I get to play 'that' theme. Many times. And the charango for a touch of mise en scene in Venezuela. Or the classical guitar for the mandatory bedroom interlude. I may venture into the control room to watch the playback as Pierce Brosnan mixes a little business with an enormous cheque. My red ’62 Strat sounds rather splendid despite the eccentric balance between music and the sound of a tactical nuclear device being detonated.
I dun played on a lorra lorra movies and they pretty much follow this general pattern. The only real difference is that you’re participating in a project of such global proportions that your children take a passing interest in your job. Why, you can even make it on to the “and finally…” section of the 10 o’clock news.
“And now, the weather and travel where you are…”
“THERE CAN BE FEW MORE EXCRUCIATING MOMENTS THAN HAVING TO RAISE YOUR HAND AND SAY, 'I PLAYED A WRONG NOTE AR BAR 12'”
For more on Mitch and his musical exploits with the Studio Kings, go to: www.mitchdalton.co.uk