International Bright Young Thing

So living at Jordan’s turned out to be like living at Grand Central Station. There was always someone interesting coming or going. Musicians, songwriters, deejays, New York art scene people—it wasn’t always clear who was connected to him for actual work and who was just there to hang around. Then again, I suppose making connections is part of the work when you’re in the business. The old cliche is “it’s not what you know, it’s who you know.” I’d say it’s more like both: you have to know your what, but you have to know the who, too.

Jordan was a connector. He was a match-maker. A people-person. My overwhelming impression of him from when we’d worked on the Moondog Three album together was that he was quiet. Quiet and serious. That impression didn’t change after three weeks in New York. Jordan being serious and quiet made people think of him as a “good listener.” Not a day went by when someone didn’t want his advice about something and to tell their whole tale of woe, whether personal or industry-related or what. Which meant that sometimes I think Jordan didn’t actually listen. He’d have the phone on his shoulder and murmur “mm hm” from time to time while he did something else with his hands, like fuss around with MIDI tracks in the computer. But I think it didn’t matter: people felt better after using him like a kind of confessor, and at the end he sometimes even dispensed advice which was always supportive.

Then again, Jordan’s actual job, in some ways, was to be a “good listener.” In the studio he was listening for what was there, and what things could be, trying to bring out the sonic excellence in a performer or a song or an arrangement. And on top of that he was the go-to guy for some record execs when they had a problem artist. Whether that artist was a diva who had gone bride-zilla during recording or a fragile talent who had faltered because of shattered ego or what.

I could see why Mills had gone straight to him when Ziggy had been difficult.

Ziggy was the topic we mostly avoided for the whole first week I was there, partly because we were so busy. We spent a couple of days tacking down rough demos of songs, and then one day Jordan said to me while handing me my noon cup of coffee, “Let’s go to the studio today.”

“Okay.” That was about as much as I could say until the coffee sank in. When it did, I added, “Why?”

“Because I think I have someone who is going to want ‘Sex With an Ex’ and it’ll go down a lot better if the actual showcase reel doesn’t have the sound of sirens driving by in the background.”

“Okay.” That made logical sense. Except it didn’t, and I realized that by the time I got to the bottom of the cup. “Wait. ‘Sex With an Ex’? Trav, you’re kidding. I just tossed that off for fun.”

“Exactly,” he said, and didn’t offer any other explanation.

That’s how I learned anything I played, even stuff I was just goofing around on, went into Jordan’s auditory memory banks.

So we went to a studio on the fifth floor of a mixed-use building in Tribeca. If you aren’t familiar with New York City it’s hard to describe what most of the buildings are like. I think most people picture “office buildings” as skyscrapers with wide, gleaming lobbies. But the majority of the buildings are 5-10 stories tall, cramped, with a million different businesses crammed in them. A massage parlor, commercial art studio, insurance agent, religious tract publisher, and pet psychologist were all in the same building with the recording studio. We went up the stairs. The only elevator came off the loading dock in back and was the kind with a cage. I don’t mean the gilded-age kind of cage, I mean the industrial ones that open top-to-bottom.

That kind of wet snow was falling that day, that kind that wants to change to rain but doesn’t quite manage it. It soaks your shoes, though. When we got upstairs we were sweaty and winded, and I took my sneakers and socks off and put them on the radiator to hopefully dry.

“I know this is just a demo,” he said, while I tuned up the Fender, “but I’d like to multi-track it.”

“Your wish is my command,” I said, non-ironically.

“Cool.” He busied himself setting up a mic and screen in the vocal booth, and then fussing around with the drum kit in the corner.

I didn’t ask something dumb like You play the drums? since apparently he did.

I don’t think it took us more than an hour to nail down “Sex with an Ex.” It’s not a long song, it’s a simple song, and we ended up not needing very many takes. Jordan also played bass, which he laid down while I did a second guitar track.

I should explain something about recording instruments like electric guitars to tape like we were. You can’t just take the plug on an electric guitar and, say, plug someone’s headphones into it and expect what they’re going to hear is what an electric guitar “sounds like.” A lot of that sound you expect to hear is created by the effects pedal and the amp. To get that sound on tape what you’re recording isn’t the sound coming out of the guitar, it’s the sound coming out of the amp. So to get it onto tape, that means putting a microphone in front of the amp.

That means, though, that the amp and the mic can be in a soundproof booth, while the guitar and the guitar player and the engineer and whoever else is hanging around, can be at the desk in the control room chatting with each other. None of the sound of the chatting gets onto the recording. This means you can be telling each other things like “Go into the B section here,” and “Is this where you want the chorus to come in?”

If you’re me, that cuts down the number of takes, since unlike in a live performance, you can be cuing each other. Also unlike a live performance, if you flub something you can stop and pick up again from that spot and you don’t have to start over from the beginning.

The last thing we recorded was the vocals. “You want these lyrics written out?” I asked.

“Why?” Trav leaned back and put his feet up on the other chair at the mixing board. “So I can hand them to whoever we’re trying to sell the song to? You know lyrics always look stupid written out.”

“Oh, you mean I’m singing it?” I couldn’t stop myself from taking a glance at the vocal booth.

“It’s your song,” he pointed out.

“Just checking. You played all the other instruments.”

“Except the important one.” He waved me toward the booth. “Get in there. You ever been in a vocal booth before?”

“You know I have. You were there when we recording backing tracks for 1989.”

“Didn’t remember,” he said, though he was bullshitting. “Remember, this is just a demo. I mean, make it sound good, but you know, whoever actually records it isn’t going to copy your vocal style most likely.”

“Good, because I haven’t got much of one.”

We ended up nailing the vocals in two takes–one really, because we decided we liked the first one better than the second one. I told you it was a simple song.

Ten hours, an order of take-out Chinese, and a couple miles of tape later, we’d laid down three more songs. I didn’t have a sense of if that was a lot or a little, but Jordan seemed very satisfied with what we had.

We left the guitars locked up there with plans to return the next day, then dropped by the apartment to change clothes. The snow had stopped and the clubs were open.

We didn’t do Limelight that night. Instead we went down to a little queer underground place on Avenue A. I laughed when I realized I’d been there before, but didn’t tell Jordan why, and he didn’t ask. It was the place I’d talked my way into when I was underage, when I was still in school, that time I’d come to the city with Nomad. This time I looked at the name: Pyramid.

It was evident Jordan was well-known there, and I wasn’t surprised when the dancing was interrupted by a stage performance, nor by the fact that Jordan introduced me to the performers afterward, nor when the two of them–one drag queen and one butch guy–came home with us to Jordan’s loft and spent the wee hours smoking weed and talking about Art with a capital A.

I know, you were expecting an orgy. Honestly, talking about Art for art’s sake was about as decadently indulgent as I could imagine right then. It was great. They didn’t give a fuck that I’d been on a major label or that the thing acting as a paperweight on the coffee table was a Grammy Jordan had won. They were very secure in their skins and in what they wanted to accomplish creatively. I have no idea now what exactly we said, only that it was very stimulating to my thought processes.

After they left and I was brushing my teeth and Jordan was taking his contacts out it struck me to ask. “Hey, didn’t you have a boyfriend last time I was here?”

He shrugged and swirled his contacts in their little double-dish with his fingertips. “Yeah.”

“Should I not ask?”

“He’ll probably be back.” Another shrug.

Huh. Maybe Jordan and I had even more in common than I’d realized.


(Hey, we’re in 1991 now. This was a hit in 1991. Don’t feel bad if you don’t remember it, though. Hardly anyone in the USA does. But I do. -d.)

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Comments 4

  1. steve wrote:

    Are you kidding? I LOVE that song. My heart lit up when I saw the title.

    My favorite thing about it, maybe, is that during the 1992 Olympics (Barcelona, maybe?) they used the instrumental part of it as bed music coming back from commercial to the women’s gymnastics. No vocals, so there was no way to identify the song if you didn’t know the song, so the perfection of these International Bright Young Things with this bed music was left as a little Easter egg for those in the know.

    [Reply]

    daron Reply:

    I’m not saying it’s a bad song at all. If it sucked it might not be so weird it fell right off the map. I find myself fascinated in a trainwreck kind of way over the career of this band. “Right Here, Right Now” was a huge ubiquitous hit in the US, but was met with indifference in the UK, and “International Bright Young Thing” was huge in the UK but it never got traction here. It was like “RH, RN” was a huge SONG but people didn’t care about the band at all, such that the second single was virtually ignored by the actual public. It got some radio play on the heels of “RH, RN” but dropped quickly from sight. I really don’t understand it, which is why I fixate on it.

    I also fixate because I think the band may have been singing about themselves. Or maybe I just imagine that.

    [Reply]

    Posted 27 Jan 2015 at 11:30 am
  2. Alan Katz wrote:

    Hate to be a nit-picker, but I’m not sure a “thin kit’ was what you meant, Daron. Perhaps “think it”?

    [Reply]

    daron Reply:

    Uh, yeah. Definitely.

    [Reply]

    Posted 27 Jan 2015 at 11:37 am
  3. chris wrote:

    For some reason I was thinking the title meant Ziggy was back from London or wherever he is hiding. I’m hoping Jordan is actual making Daron Solo Album…

    [Reply]

    daron Reply:

    He’s not hiding, he’s just busy. Sigh.

    [Reply]

    Posted 27 Jan 2015 at 6:04 pm
  4. Bill Heath wrote:

    Thanks for the insight into what it was like in 1991. In 1970 drummers claimed they could never be replaced by a machine, most of the technology you reference did not exist, and the apex of recorded music was the eight-track.

    I suppose today nearly the entire thing is done with computers, no real musicians needed. I’m waiting for “live” performances to be replaced with cgi holograms. The technology actually does exist for that.

    Of course, as soon as the audience is replaced by machines there will be no need for a music industry.

    [Reply]

    ctan Reply:

    There are already “virtual reality” pop music stars in Japan. The only time I’ve seen the virtual live cgi thing done in the US was they had Tupac appear “on stage” at Coachella or one of the big festivals, but it’s only a matter of time.

    There will always be a music industry though because there will always be people to extract money from.

    [Reply]

    Posted 09 Jan 2016 at 2:02 pm

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