FIRST PERSON: AN INSIDER'S VIEW
"A Night at the Recording Studio"
by Peter Ambroise
Issue date: 3/1/10 Section: First Person
The H.I.T.M studio is quieter than usual which, through my frequent visits, I've come to learn is when the most work is being done. Like the quiet before a storm, the gods work through unseen, conjuring winds, clouds and thunderbolts before unleashing a trillion raindrops on our heads. Seemingly much of what goes into music production is absent from the music itself. "Just living your life is making music. Cause you use that experience in your music... you know art imitates life," Corey, aka C.O H.I.T.M production manager tells me in the derelict three car garage outside the studio, while we sit conversing atop the hood of a remised 87' baby Benz.
The garage, littered with random objects, two vintage luxury cars, bar stools and an atrocious leopard pattern love-seat in the design of a woman's "Pump" shoe, which served a multitude of purposes: From barbeques to rap ciphers, to night long discourses ranging from relationships to whether or not secret societies ran the world. I take a deep pull from my "Black & Mild cigar", roll the smoke along my tongue, then exhale, inhaling only the last bit of smoke into my lungs, then take a sip from my cold, bitter, Heineken which is made sweet by the cigar smoke and try to get back to my earlier point about a sacred syntax that correlates all art forms, although seemingly obscure at times. But C.O isn't listening. He's on the phone and by the annoyed, disrespectful, tone of his voice I can tell he's talking to a "Smut," a term tossed around by H.I.T.M producers describing a woman who performs sexual favors, is fed McDonalds, and given bus fare home. I finish my cigar and beer and head into the studio.
The studio is in the basement of the H.I.T.M C.E.O "Spins" home, which they converted into a moderately equipped studio in 2005 comprised of an engineering room, reception area, bathroom and narrow hallway leading to a one man recording booth. It is home to various H.I.T.M recording artists that range from gritty street rappers to more mainstream "swagger" rappers and R&B singers.
The garage, littered with random objects, two vintage luxury cars, bar stools and an atrocious leopard pattern love-seat in the design of a woman's "Pump" shoe, which served a multitude of purposes: From barbeques to rap ciphers, to night long discourses ranging from relationships to whether or not secret societies ran the world. I take a deep pull from my "Black & Mild cigar", roll the smoke along my tongue, then exhale, inhaling only the last bit of smoke into my lungs, then take a sip from my cold, bitter, Heineken which is made sweet by the cigar smoke and try to get back to my earlier point about a sacred syntax that correlates all art forms, although seemingly obscure at times. But C.O isn't listening. He's on the phone and by the annoyed, disrespectful, tone of his voice I can tell he's talking to a "Smut," a term tossed around by H.I.T.M producers describing a woman who performs sexual favors, is fed McDonalds, and given bus fare home. I finish my cigar and beer and head into the studio.
The studio is in the basement of the H.I.T.M C.E.O "Spins" home, which they converted into a moderately equipped studio in 2005 comprised of an engineering room, reception area, bathroom and narrow hallway leading to a one man recording booth. It is home to various H.I.T.M recording artists that range from gritty street rappers to more mainstream "swagger" rappers and R&B singers.
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