Rain Recording

–Well, this morning Scott Hull had black coffee and a bagel.

Midtown Manhattan, NYC. Scott Hull, clad in his urban uniform of jeans and a button up, sits in a ubiquitous, black Herman Miller chair pecking at an iBook. The little, ivory computer is perched precariously on the edge of his mastering console humming quietly in its continuous, electronic fervor. And, though the room is filled with state-of-the-art analog and digital technology, clearly one more piece is required. "It's a bit of a weakness", he explains, his eyes moving quickly down an endless page of eBay results. "I love gear". Looking around Scott's new mastering facility on 44th street in Manhattan; I don't doubt it for a second.

As Scott continues his fruitless search, I let my gaze play about the room. I'm fascinated mostly by the enormous speakers at the head of the class, commanding the landscape like two skyscrapers amid a township of clay huts. I briefly ponder their cost – probably more than my car. But I suppose, if your career is listening to music, you should probably have a damn good set of speakers. These seem damn good. Scott noodles with eBay a bit more, grumbling with mild frustration as the "perfect", rack-mounted, parametric EQ seems ever one click further. With fewer words than I thought possible, the masterful Masterer assures me it will just be another minute or three. I take the opportunity to drink in the carefully sculpted room, every inch designed painstakingly to produce absolutely nothing. No bass, no treble, no undue echo or reverberation. A space engineered to give Scott only that which he mercilessly demands: pristine, perfect and priceless audio. The kind of sound so pure, you're compelled to weep at the shear clarity of it all. As if reading my very thoughts, he reaches 10 inches to the left and, in a single fluid motion, slides a master into the CD player. This move ostensibly to pacify me briefly with the tour of a past project. Somewhere deep in the electronic psyche of Hull's million dollar play-pen, a series of digital synapses fire and I am at once bathed in the scathing brilliance of Steely Dan the way it was meant to be. The highs ring like a church bell, the lows rumble like a bulldozer. And for a brief moment, I consider the notion of trading in my car, house and dog for a sound system half this good. Heaven must sound like this. Scott, feeling the palpability of my rapture, folds down the lid of his laptop and leans back with hands clasped behind his head. Together we drink in the majesty of a sound that makes one feel as if he's witnessing the genesis of art. Scott Hull slides a nimble finger over the remote and snaps us from our delicate haze."OK, ask me something." He taunts. Well, that is in fact why we're here. So I check my notes, clear my throat, and we begin.