Gather ’round the campfire, younglings, and let Ole Blazer recount some of the most horrifying, blood-curdling, bone-chilling stories that I’ve been told of that most dreadful slice of the musician’s pie—the recording studio! What follows are completely true, one-hundred-percent accurate anecdotes that are unsourced and unverified. While the events that transpired in these tales did happen, I will not name names. Not to protect the privacy of badly behaved musicians but to protect the engineers and producers who told me these stories in confidence so they’ll keep giving me the goods. Just know that these stories involve more than a little famous pop stars. Don’t believe me? I couldn’t care less! I don’t even know who you are! You probably think the stripper in front of you actually likes you, so your bullshit detector is clearly broken.
Now, throw some dollars at the nice lady, sit down, shut up, and listen to the incredibly true tales of the lawless wasteland that is the recording studio.
Rock stars making outlandish and entitled demands is nothing new. Everyone is well aware of Van Halen’s no brown M&M’s request. No matter how much David Lee Roth insists that it was a safety precaution to make sure that stagehands were reading their contracts thoroughly, I call bullshit. Still, I get the importance of stagehands carefully reading the details in a contract for a show involving multiple pyrotechnics. However, for a studio session that involves only vocals, I can’t imagine why it would be important for the engineers to read the fine print. The "talent" shows up, whines into a microphone with headphones on, then leaves. The walls are often padded, too, for soundproofing, so I’m not sure what injuries are even possible. Still, this unnamed diva demanded not only a bowl of white M&M’s but also vases full of white roses in every room, white curtains hung on every surface she’d have to look at, and all the furniture would have to be white. The label would pay for everything, so it’s not like it cost the studio anything other than the hassle of going out and buying an absurd amount of M&M’s and white roses. The engineer who told me this story was luckily able to borrow some white leather chairs from a friend and threw a white sheet over the couch in the sound room (fortunately, the diva didn’t notice). As stated before, the session lasted only an hour, and the singer left with only part of a vocal take. The engineer didn’t remember the pop star even touching the bowl of all-white M&M’s. If you think I’m making this up, look up the ultrawealthy’s obsession with white interior design. It checks out. Ultimately, the only downside to this demand was that a bunch of white roses were just thrown in the trash. They kept the M&M’s (the non-white ones, too), which will likely last the studio staff till the end of time.
Different studio, different engineer, same awful city. If you haven’t guessed, all these stories take place in Los Angeles. This one involves a band in the mid-’80s. The band in question was signed and well-known in the underground circuit but not the worldwide sensation they’d become in the early ‘90s. They hit up the studio to set up a week of blockout time. So far, nothing out of the ordinary. On the start date, naturally, there was no band in sight at the agreed-upon start time. Finally, several hours later, a tour bus arrives with the band, some equipment, and a slew of groupies and hangers-on. The band and their entourage poured into the studio and, from what I heard, didn’t seem too worried about the late start. The first item of business was to break out the multiple cases of beer they brought with them and pour out lines of blow on the control room’s coffee table. Some folks in the band did plug in and start jamming away, but it seemed to be more for the entertainment of the entourage than for laying anything to tape. The studio’s time was already paid for, so the engineer who told me this story didn’t care too much, except that he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Then he saw another tour bus pull into the parking lot. The engineer assumed that maybe this was going to be the studio musicians who would actually play everything, along with the rest of the equipment. No such luck. This second bus was just more groupies and drug dealers coming to join the party. Apparently, some stuff was recorded at this session that made it on the album. If there’s any lesson to be learned from these stories thus far, it’s to get signed immediately since record labels seem to have endless money to throw at emotionally stunted artists.
By far, my favorite story I’ve heard, once again, takes place in Los Angeles. This time, the artist in question wasn’t making ridiculous demands or acting a fool in the studio, not taking the time seriously. From everything I heard, the sessions themselves were productive enough. The artist was laying her parts down, treated the staff well, and was doing the normal amount of cocaine while listening to takes in the control room. The only thing that the engineer noticed was amiss was that the artist always seemed to nervously check her phone, and when she took calls, she did them in private. The session ended, and the artist left. The engineer, as they’re often expected to, stayed after hours to do some rough mixes to send to the label. He heard the studio door ring and buzzed whoever it was in, figuring it was either the artist or someone affiliated. Turns out it was two Russian gangsters with Glocks drawn and pointed straight at him. Although the artist was doing the normal amount of cocaine, it turns out she wasn’t paying for it. The engineer who told me this story is still alive, so clearly, the Russians believed him when he said they just missed her. Famous people don’t exactly give out their number, so he couldn’t help the gentlemen get in touch anyway. I never heard if those poor Russian gangsters got the drug money that the pop star owed them. I hope they did. Stealing is wrong, kids.
