Friday, June 20, 2014

Why You Shouldn't Tell Your Clients About Your Mistakes

You're Not an Idiot

Well, I'm making an assumption I suppose, but you probably aren't.  You know that you've practiced and honed your skill, brought along spares, planned the shoot, and generally done everything that a true craftsman is supposed to do.  But inevitably, something will go wrong, whether it's on every shoot or just once in a while.  Occasionally it's something you can fix with spares you've brought, and occasionally it's something you've done wrong that cannot be fixed later, like forgetting to refocus when you moved the camera four inches to the right.  You casually zoom in on the LCD, only to discover that the shot you've spent an hour composing is now useless.  How you handle that kind of thing is what will separate you from the rest of the pack.

Let's take a look at why you shouldn't tell your client what you just did.

You Seem Less Than Professional

First and foremost, your client isn't there to be your friend.  They're there to have you do a service for them, and they expect it to be done to a certain level of professionalism, even if it's being done for free.  You should be attempting to build yourself up beyond the point where it looks like you're making excuses.  You and I know you're not making excuses when you say "just a moment, I broke one of my lenses, so I need to put another one on," but the client won't see it that way.

You're Not Drawing Them Into a Kinship, You're Alienating Them From Your Product

 

 It's often assumed that the sharing of a potentially disastrous adventure will bring you and your client together, since they should be able to relate to what you're going through, and perhaps as a result you can both have a good laugh about it later on down the road.

They can't, and you won't.

All that ends up happening is that they will now feel like they made the wrong choice in hiring you, and they will feel that way from that point on.  You will have no chance to "redeem yourself."

 Their View of the Product Will Be Forever Tainted

 

Sure, they'll get their product, whether it's shots, a poster, or whatever, and they'll tell you it looks great.  Or fine.  Or okay.  But it doesn't matter what they tell you, they're lying, either to you or to themselves.  All they'll ever be able to think about when they see that shot is how much better they think it could have been had you been able to use your first lens, or both lights, or if they could only have used that other location that you forgot to ask permission for.  They have just purchased a permanent reminder of something they think they don't want.  And it has your name on it.

Crystallized With a Story

 

I know the above sounds somewhat extreme, but it happens all the time.  Many years ago, I was recording a series of live dates with 28 bands from a famous venue in the mountains of Colorado, North of Boulder.  Those recordings, done one band at a time over a period of almost a year, were to be released  as a compilation with the venue's name on it, as promotion not only for the venue, but also for the bands who appeared there, since few of them had any label attention at that time.  The venue, the bands, and the CD will not be named here, as I do not wish to appear disparaging about anyone in particular.  It's the experience itself that's important. 

I was recording with three 8-track digital machines synched together, using two 24-channel boards as input and monitoring.  This was back in the days before a workstation could do all of that (in fact, no computer was involved), so it was by necessity a pretty complicated setup that needed to be broken down and moved a lot.  During one evening, one of the machines refused to sync with the others, leaving us with only 16 usable tracks to record.  I had other dates piling up behind this one, so it was a bit frustrating, thinking about when I would be able to either pull the deck apart, or be without it for service.  But as far as the recording was concerned, it wasn't a big deal, since I was only planning on using 18 tracks total for this particular group.

So I combined two of the tracks into others - one tom went onto another tom track, and the hi-hat went onto the stereo overhead drum pair.  Those of you who are familiar with the process will know that having this setup won't be a problem during mixdown, as long as I got the relative levels between the channels correct during recording.  No problem.

During the first break, very relieved that I had solved the issue, I casually mentioned it in conversation with the band.  Much to my surprise, they absolutely flipped out.  They couldn't believe I could be so unprofessional, so uncaring about the music they were so carefully crafting on stage.  And no, that's not an exaggeration.  They informed me in very elevated language that I had just ruined their career, and given them a handicap that no one else on the album would have, thus possibly destroying their local reputation as well.

When it came time to mix, 27 out of 28 bands approved their first mixes.  But this band was livid - everything was wrong, there was no "life" in the mix, and it was brought up many times in the several conversations about it that the obvious culprit was not having enough tracks.  Through this whole process, I was very open with them, telling them that only two tracks had been reassigned, but that just didn't make any difference to them.

I added more reverb, pitch correction, compression, and doubling to their mix, as they requested.  That second mix was still not good enough.  So I did a third mix, editing out more performance mistakes, changing reverb and compression, and generally trying to give them a pop-oriented, highly produced mix that sounded very unlike something one would expect to hear from a Folk band.  My protestations that it wouldn't sound like the other bands fell on unhearing ears.  They were determined to get everything they possibly could out of the recording, whether the source material was there or not.

So finally, the third mix was approved, but that's not the end of the story.  When the double album came out, they were disappointed yet again, because their tracks didn't sound like the other bands.  Why yes, dear reader, I had indeed warned them about that exact scenario playing out, about how I wanted to capture the feel of the musicians for a live album, not go in and sand off all the live magic from a small club.  But I had done just that, and spent several extra days in the studio (before we had recallable automation) giving them something I knew they didn't want, and would never have asked for in any other circumstance.  That was another mistake I made.

Now we have a CD that is a self-fulfilling prophecy, though not for the reasons they think it is.  Their tracks sound like an over-produced studio Folk melange of hypercompression and long reverb, damaging their reputation, just as they had foreseen, and it was my fault.  Part of my fault was in trying to appease them during mixdown, because I should have realized it was simply impossible for anything about it to be what they now wanted it to be.  I should have told them it was my production and my decision, and they had no say in it.  But my personality won't allow that.  I give in far too easily, to try to make my clients happy.

But mostly, it was definitely my fault for letting them know that one of my machines had gone down.  Had I kept my big mouth shut in the first place, I would have saved myself three studio days and kept a client happy.

So What Do You Do When That Happens?


Here are a few basic guidelines I've come up with, but of course you're free to add your own:

1.  Don't tell anybody anything.
If your client isn't there, no worries!  No one will ever have to know, as long as you keep quiet about it later.  If your client is present (and this includes any human being at the shoot, because they can always blab when talking to someone after the fact), keep them engaged in conversation about anything at all while you fix whatever you need to fix.  Talk about the car or model you're shooting, and what your plans are for the shoot, as though you're telling them your secret methods that no one else knows about.  While they think they're getting the inside scoop, you're figuring out how to use two lights instead of six.  Or the location wall instead of the white backdrop you forgot.  Or you have time to switch radio trigger systems, or even figure out how to use no triggers at all.

2.  If they ask, deflect, deflect, deflect.  Spin, spin, spin.
You don't have to lie to them.  Well, usually.  But you're going to need to think quickly.  If they ask why you're changing lenses, tell them you were experimenting, but the other lens you have to pull out of the trunk will do this job better.  That's certainly no lie if you just broke your primary lens!

If they notice you're not setting up as much stuff as you told them you were bringing, tell them these new lights will do a better job than the old junkers you had planned on bringing.  Come up with a reason why you either had to change gear, or use less.  Turn it into a positive.  Keep in mind the mantra that "this other" gear will be better, and less gear will be better.  Ansel Adams had one camera and no lights.  You think you can do better with ten lights and four bodies?  You may even literally come up with something better than you imagined, when you force yourself to think on your feet, to solve problems you weren't anticipating.  The best music and art in human history was produced by working within economic limitations and seemingly random genre rules.

3.  They may still know.
Yes, they may, if they're very savvy, and they're hands-on enough to know that no photographer would use a brick wall out of preference, rather than necessity, or a 55-gallon drum as a light stand.  If they saw you break your lens, make sure they know it's fortunate that the cheaper one broke, since the good one's still in the case!  That's certainly not a lie either, since your $1500 lens is now worth about $4 as a paperweight.  Or when you have to ask them if they have a white sheet somewhere, and they ask you why you didn't bring enough, you can say "I just had a cool idea I've never thought of before, and I want to try it out today, here with you."  If they can't come up with what you need, but they have something else, say "Oh, that's even better - let's use that!"  You've turned a potentially disastrous PR nightmare into something the client will be bragging to his friends about as soon as you leave.  They're part of a new experience, and suddenly they're excited to see what you come up with. 

Now you'd better come up with it, even if they brought back a blue curtain instead of a white sheet.  While you're setting up with the reduced gear level, start explaining in small pieces (don't be too verbose, or they'll get suspicious) why this will be better than having too much gear, and your impressed client will come along for the ride.  This is your chance to either build your reputation and relationship with this client, or damage them both.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

The Greatest Life on Earth

(Note:  This piece is made up of scraps from a book I was to write about life in the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus.  The book now probably won't be written, but the story still needs to be told.  This is a portion of it.)

It's been close to 130 years since the Ringling Brothers first started their circus.  With this monstrous production almost the entire time has been the railroad train, thundering and grumbling down the parallel steelway, always on its way to the next magical destination, bringing with it a conglomeration of all types of stars, workers, trainers, families and corrallers from all walks of life all over the world.

Nowhere else on Earth does the storied Melting Pot take hold so forcefully, so mystically.  And all in the name of Entertainment.  This truly is the epitome, the very definition, of Show Business, and the strongest societal magnet of all for millions of young children over the last century-plus, dreaming of life on the road with what feels like an endless menagerie of exotic animals, seeing cities and towns they would never otherwise experience, and meeting wonderful new people every day of their lives.

With the advent of faster transportation and a faster society, the combined magic of train travel and the circus life has become much less mainstream in attitude and feel than in previous generations.  But for those in the know, the life persists, and will continue to feed the nomad showman's soul in a way that is inescapable, unforgettable, and life-forming.  Let's take a peek inside that life for just a second.  Those big steel wheels are ready to roll.

The Train


There are actually TWO full train productions of the Circus, both travelling various parts of North America at any given time.  The Barnum circus train is the only privately-owned train allowed on Amtrack tracks.  The train carries every scrap of the show and all the people required to put it on, and it lumbers into town a day or two before the first scheduled performance.  A trainyard spot is reserved for the community to park, since they need someplace to come back to every night after the show.  So while the surroundings of the sleeping area are familiar, the homes of the showpeople and staff are constantly changing their surroundings.  The level of welcome in what are working and busy trainyards varies, with everyone trying their best to get along in unfamiliar surroundings.  This first shot shows a worker emptying trash bags that are hung outside the berth areas.  There simply isn't room inside the train for them, and it's critically important that the trainyard not become a dump, out of respect for all parties involved.  Note that satellite dish!

I'm lucky enough to have a good friend inside the circus:  Jerome Giancola plays bass for Ringling Brothers, and has been on their roster for about two years.  I met him when I owned a record label, auditioning players for an American Idol singer.  Jerome has had a very interesting career, including not only session work, but also recording, playing on cruise ships, and a number of other interesting forays that are not too common in the Music Industry.

Even while on the road with Ringling, Jerome stays busy with other artists by recording tracks for them in his state-of-the-art studio, dining room, storage space/kitchen/bedroom, pictured here.  Note the presence of the laptop, allowing him to record over previously-supplied multitracks, or even create all-new materials ready to be uploaded thousand of miles away for final album construction.

The Life

Once in town, every effort is made to keep life as normal as possible.  Bikes are common, and are parked nearby so that grocery runs and sightseeing can be accomplished.  The size of the accommodations varies depending on the person's job and seniority.  Most of the performers bring their entire families with them, and get together for family activities during every possible moment of free time.  After the show, I noticed a number families bringing their kids out to the stage floor to have them exercise while the parents practiced for the next night's routine.  Many of these families have known nothing but the circus for generations, and not just with Ringling Brothers.  Almost every nationality and race is represented, and many other circuses feed their talent into Ringling, with the inverse also being true.

Here Jerome (right) socializes with Geoff Fruchy, one of the managers of concessions, around midnight, when most of the activity happens around the train.  There are many jobs within the traveling organization, from rigging, through electricians, booth staff, safety, train specialists, animal handlers and trainers, and the band, to say nothing of the performers.  This truly is a city on wheels, with a gratifying and challenging variety of personalities and human experience that can be found nowhere else.

Without fail, every person I met during my all-too short visit was friendly, receptive, and happy to see me.  And they were also very willing to share their stories.  There's no room for that here, but I'm very hopeful that I'll be able to tell some more intimate recollections at a future time.

Here's a view from the same spot as our first, but this time taken late at night, after the show.  I include it because there's a wonderful time of night in Show Business, when the crowd has gone home, you as the performer know you've done your job, and now it's time for some peace and quiet.  Outside of Show Business, I've never experienced anything like the solitude and Universal Consciousness of being in a familiar, yet unfamiliar place, unwinding with friends and strangers.  It's as though the rest of the Universe has completely stopped, and is allowing you some peace.

There's only one feeling that eclipses it, and that's the feeling you get when you pull out of one town, and sometime later on, whether it be hours or days, pull into the next.  It's like you've given everything you are to one place, and are ready to move on.  Maybe it's also that anything unpleasant that may have happened can now be put permanently in the rear view, looking forward only to better days.  Then, when you pull into the next town, there's a wonderful feeling of hope and happiness at what might lay ahead.  Of course, after you've been through enough cities and towns, you know it's not really true.  But the feeling is there nonetheless.  It's like a drug.  Perhaps that's what keeps us a partially nomadic species; the hope of what's just around the corner.

As I mentioned above, there's much, much more to this story.  You haven't met Jerome, nor any of the fascinating people he works with.  Perhaps we can explore that more next time.