My stint in Chennai as an assistant sound engineer was quite enriching. I got to work alongside Emmy, who at his peak was the chief engineer for Ilaiyaraaja and was later known for designing and managing studio installations, including A.R. Rahman’s A.M. Studio.
He narrated how a recording used to happen way back in the early ’60s and ’70s, when studio acoustics in India were still being explored.
This incident is set in Prasad Studios, Chennai. The music room is filled with a music ensemble: humble and simple, well-oiled and combed, scarily silent instrumentalists, and a shivering singer. Music composer Ilaiyaraaja holds his fury in the pumping bellows of the harmonium, giving a countdown for the recording to begin.
Getting a pre-countdown nod from the composer, the door-keeper of the music room switches on the red light. Seeing that, the studio boy, who is at the porch end outside the music room, raises a white cloth and starts waving.
Observing this, the watchman at the gate of Prasad Studios paces himself and centers himself in the middle of the road, stopping all oncoming vehicles, especially the newly launched cars.
That done, he waves a white cloth back to the studio boy, who then switches on another switch for a light that signals the recording engineer to begin recording. And then the recording begins and ends, in one take, under 4 minutes.
The vehicles could then drive their way to their destinations, and the drivers could share the scoop that they helped Ilaiyaraaja in a recording at Prasad Studio.
That said, today I dare to record with any and every sound that makes its way through the microphone pores.
I’m eager to know what cars were so noisy that they could rumble their way into the studio vacuum.