The Producer

The first time I ever worked with a music producer, I had an epic anxiety attack.

It was a splendiferous weekend in October, 2013. The leaves along the trail behind Glenhyrst Art Gallery, along the banks of the Grand River, saturated our skin with nature’s last golden breath of autumnal warmth.

We’d planned, that weekend, to leave behind our retail jobs and embark on a mini-tour of Kingston, Montreal, Moncton, Halifax, and Fredericton. The tour was to buffer the main event - a performance at Halifax Pop Explosion, to which we’d applied and thought we were shoo-ins. Despite being former Halifax residents and gleefully performing at the fest in 2010, we were rejected.

We were pissed. Not that we were entitled to be angry, but disappointment oftentimes masquerades as rage. A toughie emotion. An I'm not crying, you're crying sort of vibe.

Sulking by the river’s edge in Brantford, 2013

We decided there, on the riverside, to celebrate our perceived failure by cancelling our tour, and recording with a producer instead.

We’d been a self-produced band for six years. I had never worked with any musician other than Ryan. Nobody else had ever tried telling me what to do. This was going to be interesting.

Jon was an accomplished musician, but not exactly a household name. He was just another unsung hero of the underground Canadian music scene. For whatever reason, he offered to record us at his old school studio - located inside an actual garage. Because he is awesome, we agreed.

We’d planned to pick him up in Toronto, then drive back to the studio outside the city together. The least we could do for a guy who’d offered to record us for free.

We ran late, as we always did.

Because of nerves. Because we were high. Because we were scared of entering into this completely harmless situation. We kept Jon waiting. He was understanding. Away we drove, already feeling like failures.

The studio was freezing cold. It was full of pool-installation business paraphernalia unrelated to music, as well as a bunch of very cool (and very cold) musical gear. I didn't like it. I was shivering. I set up my drums, nervously. Jon was a drummer. An excellent drummer. I felt like an imposter.

I sipped a beer, getting colder. Why had I expected a heated room? My thrift store denim and hoodie combination wasn’t cutting it. My nose ran. I had no gloves. Why would I?

The exact opposite of how I felt drumming with a producer in a cold garage. I sure as hell could have used those gloves, though.

Once we’d set up, and sound-checked, and probably eaten something, we got to work. We recorded Ryan’s song, Transfiguration, with relative ease. You can hear us coughing, sniffling, chatting and giggling at the start of the recording. We did a few takes, and we all fucked up a few times. I repeatedly felt like an idiot, but just kept hitting those drums. Jon played bass, and produced our singing. I never would have chosen that harmony for myself. But the end result? Chef’s kiss.

I tried to play drums and sing lead (as I often did) on our second recording, the blues ballad Waiting On A Train. Tracking such a situation live was nearly impossible. Jon suggested that he play drums on this one. I ran outside alone, hyperventilating. Then, I smoked a joint to calm down, as was my healing protocol at the time.

Here we go. Back inside.

I felt dejected, but I rolled with it. He told me to play guitar. I had no idea what to play. He suggested that I drone a single note on guitar while I sang. I felt utterly inferior to the other two men in the room.

Listening to our recordings in the dark in November, 2013

Then, we hit record. Jon sat behind my drums. I sang. Tentatively at first, and then with more gusto. I was cold, dehydrated, stoned, and overwhelmed. I wanted to create something special. I just wanted to make Ryan proud. I even wanted to make Jon proud. Mostly, I just wanted to get it over with.

Then the drums kicked in.

My voice betrayed me, but I didn't care. It was croaking, moaning, and wailing out a truth I didn't know existed. I sang words I didn't know were in my head. I was excited. Elated.

I had been produced.

The resulting song was the most unhinged, anxiety ridden, cathartic piece of music I had ever recorded. Jon produced us to sound like the earliest live White Stripes soundboard recordings, and we both loved it.

After midnight, we crashed - hesitantly - in Jon's aunt's basement adjacent to the garage. The producer I’d been so nervous to work with slept in a neighbouring rec room: just another exhausted, starving artist. In the morning, we drank black coffee, ate some toast, then awkwardly parted ways.

I learned from that day to befriend my panic. Fear and art make excellent bedfellows. Anxiety, oftentimes, is my mind’s valiant attempt at sabotaging a potentially transcendent experience.