We soon signed with Caroline and settled on producer Dave “Stiff” Johnson. Approximately a year after I’d gotten up off that suitcase in New Jersey, we were in Conshohocken, Pennsylvania, with a tiny budget, freezing our asses off and making our first record. Stiff Johnson, like any good producer, worked hard to rein in some of the insanity of our arrangements. We were rough around the edges and he worked to keep our tempos steady, to slow things down and keep us “in the pocket” when we got carried away. He got us to streamline our parts and placed us far away from each other so that piano mics didn’t pick up drums. He got me to sing more earnestly, and sometimes very softly, to highlight the lyrics. And in the end, he balanced us more correctly so that the bass wasn’t buzzing through the arrangements, the piano was simpler, and the drums less jazzy. He placed the music in the background and featured the voice. Sometimes he would suggest adding guitar. We certainly questioned this from time to time, but none of us had nearly his experience in the studio. We felt we should follow his lead.
* * *
—
Kerry McCarthy, who had picked up my publishing contract in New York, was now helping navigate our career, and she came down to visit on the last day of our mix. She was very excited to hear what we had done, and I was excited for her to hear it. It had been an intense couple weeks of recording and learning. I still file those sessions under “damn good times.” Kerry listened to the first few songs and disappeared back into the tape room. When I caught up to her, she was crying. I’m pretty awkward at helping weeping friends with problems. I figured she’d just had a breakup. I took a deep breath and asked her what was wrong.
“The whole thing,” she sobbed. “It doesn’t sound like you at all. It sounds like three old men. It’s awful.”
* * *
—
A few days later, back in Chapel Hill, Robert, Darren, and I sat in the living room with a few beers, playing the studio mixes over and over, trying to convince ourselves the album was great. We theorized that Kerry must have been expecting our record to sound just like a gig. We assured ourselves that’s not the way it works in the studio. Studio and stage are two different animals. Besides, some of our favorite records of all time sounded more formal than the live performances.
Darren suggested we pop in a cassette recording from a recent show for perspective. Good idea, I thought. I expected the tape to sound like a bad live recording, which would strengthen our resolve to stick by the more restrained studio versions. But not so. Not at all! The performance on that cassette was on fire! Yes, it was low-fi fire. But it was unique, energetic, and it popped out of the speakers. Damn. Kerry had been right. The album we’d made didn’t capture who we were. What’s worse, we’d spent the entire budget on it. Playing our studio mixes back once more our hearts sank.
We considered the possibility of using that live cassette tape as the record, but Kerry had a better solution. She would get us three thousand dollars and we could record some more with Caleb Southern, who had produced our seven-inch single. To say that’s not a lot of money for a record would be a tremendous understatement. Under normal circumstances it might have paid for one day in the studio with a few extra expenses, but Caleb worked it out for us to get five days. The label insisted we stay focused and just concentrate on a couple of songs—a few of the up-tempo ones. Chaz Molins, our label rep, came down for a day to keep an eye on us, to make sure we stayed focused on the agreed-upon songs and got the right results. But as soon as he left, we went for it and recorded the entire album again, plus a few extras. All rhythm tracks and guide vocals were done in two days. Having spent a day putting on a show for the label, we had one day for the vocals and one to mix.
* * *
—
The experience was the complete opposite of the Conshohocken sessions. This time, we embraced all the things that any proper producer would want to fix. I recall sweating like I was playing a basketball game, catching my breath between passes. The more we broke the law, the better it sounded when it came back through the speakers. Caleb worked to bridge the difference between our live sound and the more well-behaved album we’d just made in Conshohocken. He understood the upside-down balance that made us tick—too much distorted bass, too much background vocal, and a slightly buried lead. He came up with ways of capturing the uncapturable, and he nailed it. I’ve rarely been as inspired as I was hearing what we recorded with Caleb. It really seemed like something new.
The day of our marathon twenty-four-hour mix, neither Caleb nor I left the building or slept. When I finally hit the bed, for the first time in two days, I was struck with fear that I wouldn’t ever wake up. I was so tired, the pull of sleep was so hard, that I honestly believed I was going to die. I thought, At least I finally made a good album! Good night, world!
* * *
—
Once they heard what we’d done, Caroline Records forgave us for recording more than was agreed upon. Our entire session with Stiff Johnson went on the pile with all my other demos and literally into a vault. And my theory on demos, and how you shouldn’t record songs more than once, went on that pile too. It turns out demos aren’t evil—recording songs multiple times doesn’t steal their soul. I just hadn’t been doing it right. I was playing it too safe when recording. I needed to break the law and I needed accomplices. In Robert, Darren, and Caleb, I’d finally found the dangerous co-conspirators with whom to collaborate.
I’m not suggesting that Ben Folds Five’s debut is a damn masterpiece. But I’m very proud of it. We were backed against the wall and went with our gut. It changed everything for us. From then on we would only do exactly what felt right. Too much compression, you say? Eh. Too many notes? Too much pounding? Out of tune? Speeding up? Actually yes, fuck it, why not? We decided we were allowed to do whatever the hell made us happy. There’s no doubt in my mind—if Kerry hadn’t cried, if we hadn’t made the whole album again in such a frenzy, had we not cast all conventional wisdom aside in that last-ditch effort—the first Ben Folds Five album would have been our last.
WELCOME TO THE GODDAMN MUSIC BUSINESS
Called in sick one day
Stepped out my front door
Squinted up at the sky and strapped on my backpack
Got into a van
and when I returned I had ex-wives and children, boxes
of photographs
—From “Free Coffee,” Way to Normal, 2008
DELIVERING THE MASTER OF OUR first album was like tossing a grenade in slow motion. It was like we sailed it through an open window at Caroline Records in the dead of night and it landed with a light clink somewhere in their tiny New York City office—followed by a week of quiet…