A Working Day in the Studio

9 AM. I get to the studio before the artist. Coffee, monitors on, a reference track I love at low volume. Calibrate my ears. Confirm the chain—mic, pre, converter, DAW—is exactly where I left it yesterday.

10 AM. Artist arrives. We talk for fifteen minutes about anything except music—their drive in, the song they heard on the way. The first job in the room is not engineering. It's making someone feel comfortable enough to perform.

10:30 AM. Tracking. The first take is always a warm-up. I record it anyway. The third or fourth take is usually the one. We work part by part—lead, doubles, harmonies, ad-libs—and I never tell the artist which take I think is the keeper until they've committed to one.

2 PM. The artist breaks for food. I usually don't. When I'm in the zone I'd rather lose the meal than the take—I stay on the keys and clean up what we just cut while they step out.

3 PM. Back to it. By now the artist is warmed up. Some of the best takes of the day live in this window.

5 PM. Editing the day's work. Strip silence, fix timing, comp the best moments. I do this with the artist out of the room. They don't need to watch surgery.

7 PM. Rough mix. I commit. I do not nitpick today's mix for tomorrow's ears.

9 PM. Bounce a reference mix for the artist to listen to in their car. The car is the truest room in their world.

10 PM. I leave the studio with a finished day's work—not a finished song, but a finished day. Tomorrow is another day, another set of decisions. That's the job.

A note on the clock. The day above is a clean one. Plenty of real ones run twelve on, twelve off—or twelve straight, then twelve more—for weeks at a time. I've watched the sun come up through the studio door more times than I can count. When the record is due, the clock doesn't matter. Plan for the long ones too.