Review: Sound City -- Part II

"You should try to have something to say."
                                        -- Trent Reznor

When I decided to review Dave Grohl's documentary Sound City, it was pretty much just an excuse to buy a documentary I was interested in, and so I went into this project predisposed to enjoying it--even if the film wasn't all that great, it would be an excuse to watch some of rock and roll's finest talking about what they do best.

In the end, I lucked out.

You see, Sound City actually turned out to be one of the best documentaries I've seen in a long time, and it has nothing to do with my affinity for the subject matter. I'll be the first to admit that I have no film training whatsoever, and in that sense, my thoughts on Grohl's documentary, aren't worth a whole lot, but I do have ideas about the art, and one of those ideas is that a good documentary should transcend its subject matter--it should be about more than whatever it is ostensibly about. Sound City is that way. Though the film is, on the surface, a historical exposé covering the Sound City Studios, a dirty, hole-in-the-wall production company where legends like Carl Perkins, Fleetwood Mac, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Neil Young, John Fogerty, Grateful Dead, Elton John, Cheap Trick, Pat Benatar, Carlos Santana, Rage Against the Machine, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Queens of the Stone Age, Johnny Cash, Rick Springfield, Foreigner, Nine Inch Nails, and Nirvana, went to lay tape and create epic albums, beneath its surface, the film is actually about artistic integrity and the human need for community.

These themes are evident from the first image of a lone man setting up the recording studio. We pan to Dave Grohl sitting quietly with his acoustic guitar and his voice over, relating those first nascent impulses that drove him, Krist Novocelic, and Kurt Cobain to hop in a van, twenty-two years ago, and drive down to L.A. to record the record that would turn them into a household name overnight: "We were just kids with nothing to lose and nowhere to go--but we had these songs and we had these dreams."

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In 1969, Sound City Studios was owned and run by Joe Gottfried, a former singer for the U.S. Army Choir, and Tom Skeeter, Vice-President of a holding company based in Charleston, West Virginia. Housed in a former Vox amplifier factory and located in the (then undeveloped) San Fernando Valley area, the studio, built on "if you build it, they will come" dreams, struggled to attract big name acts at first. However, it had three things going for it: a die-hard staff, a rare acoustic anomaly to its studio space, and the Neve Console--a state-of-the-art, hand-made analog mixer built by Rupert Neve. Looking like the controls to a spaceship and built like a tank, this unique piece of equipment (one of only four made) cost $75,000 at the time of its purchase (twice what Skeeter paid for his home), and it serves as the unifying motif in this documentary. The Neve is like a character, and its dramatic fate thematically mirrors that of the other cast members. We all grow old. We all get replaced by the next great thing.

By the seventies, the studio had become the place where bands went to find out what they were made of--Tom Petty keyboardist Benmont Tench says at one point that in Sound City, there was no place to hide; the studio had a unique way of exposing your flaws ("Man, we suck"). What's interesting is that many of the artists interviewed for this project focus in on a certain kind of imperfection that accentuates the human being behind the performance. "Music isn't supposed to be perfect. It's about people relating to each other and doing something from the soul," Tom Petty (a notorious perfectionist) quips. "Imperfections make it sound like people," Grohl agrees. 

In addition to being a proving ground for artists, the studio was also the place where great records were made. By the 1980's 7 of 8 radio songs had been recorded at Sound City, and by the time it shut its doors in 2011, this meager studio had produced over 100 gold and platinum certified albums. Most great rock stars burn brightly during their peak and then burn out--it's a phenomenon that is not particularly surprising in a career that tends to be short-lived and unforgiving. Sound City followed that career trajectory. With the advent of CDs and digital recording, older tape-based studios like Sound City quickly became living fossils. For the first time, artists could manipulate audio in new ways on their home computer using Pro Tools, and they didn't have to rely on expert studio techs to do it. Unable to keep up with the fast-paced changes, Sound City was dead in the water. In a final gesture of appreciation, the staff used the last of their money to repaint the walls and began selling off the equipment to pay the bills.

Then, in 1991, a band no one had ever heard of showed up, lured by the studio's legendary reputation and low-key vibe. When Nirvana's Nevermind hit #1 on the charts, it sparked a renewed interest in Sound City and in analog recording, in general. Though this boost would not be enough to keep Sound City open for good, it did buy the studio more time. Where we pick up this story is with Dave Grohl who has purchased the legendary Neve console and had it moved to his home studio, essentially saving it from the junk heap. After reassembling the mixer in its new home, Studio 606, Grohl invites a number of great artists (most with ties to the old studio), including Stevie Nicks, Rick Springfield, Lee Ving, Trent Reznor, and Paul McCartney, to record "Reel to Reel" a new album of rock music recorded on old equipment. (For more information on this album, check out part three of my review, forthcoming.)

It would be easy to pigeonhole this documentary as a bittersweet redemption story, or to label it narrowly as a nostalgic look back at a time when things were simpler and the music sounded better, but what makes this film so powerful is that it is not polemical. It does not set up an easy dichotomy between the old-fashioned analog recording and the new digital techniques. For the most part, it does not stand on its soapbox. Digital is given its fair shake--it is democratic and easy to use, opening the world of music to a much larger population and freeing music from insiderism. (It's also a useful creative tool--especially when combined with older techniques, as Trent Reznor shows us.) On the other hand, as Reznor points out, better tools has not necessarily meant better music. With digital comes the reality that any jackass can be a rock star. Quality control takes a hit. John Fogerty laments (and possibly resents) the musicians who tell him they don't need to practice--they can clean it up in the mixing stage. Tom Petty scoffs at the notion that you only need one fader (a volume control) instead of 72--that the rest of the work can be done in post-production. Reznor remarks how sad it is that a musician can go through life having never actually seen the device that is being mimicked on his or her laptop. And, as viewers, we are left with this uneasy pull between two worlds--a fair and balanced place to be.

It's not a bad point for writers to keep in mind, as well, with the rise of eBooks and DIY publishing. For me, one of the most interesting and poignant parts of the documentary was getting to see these artists make music together. Watching it makes your heart grow larger somehow. And the recurring theme--that the limitations of the Neve console actually makes for better art is something that resonated with me. It's the same reason why poets still write in form occasionally--the limitations are good for art, they force you to make creative choices you otherwise would not make. Seeing this validated by professionals in another medium was especially rewarding, but the most important element of the documentary (as mentioned earlier) was the ways in which it underscored the need for humanity. This is a film about a group of people who struggle to move on from a place they loved and everything that it stood for. From Rick Springfield baring his soul, to musicians tearing up as they talk about the studio staff who were like family, to the stories of our rock heroes meeting their own rock heroes for the very first time in the halls of this fabled building, Grohl's documentary deftly puts words and images and music to this collective feeling of loss without resorting to maudlin gimmicks and without being depressing--no small feat! In doing so, he subtly underscores the biggest downside of a digital recording world: the loss of community. "Yes, you can do it all on your own, but you'll be much happier if you do it with other human beings," Mick Fleetwood cautions us, and everything about this documentary confirms that to be true. It's a lesson all artists--including writers--ought to keep in mind, especially as we continue moving toward new technologies and different models of distribution.

At 1 hr. 45 min. this documentary is fast-paced and plain-spoken enough to keep even the most casual viewer interested. Grohl is a charming, often humorous narrator, with an eye for scenic composition and a child's enthusiasm for his subject. It's nice to see people enjoying what they do, and you walk away from the film wishing you could call the Foo Fighter's front-man up on the phone (or at least buy him a beer or something). Even those who do not fancy themselves artists and have no real interest in rock music will find something to enjoy here--especially those who appreciate character-based cinema and the charm of low places.

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Don't forget to check back next week for the third and final of this feature review, when I take a closer look at the album "Sound City: Reel to Reel."