A Fan's Taping Obsession

A few times a week, Erik can be found in "the sweet spot" of a nightclub while a band plays onstage. This is the area he has determined through experience to be the best-sounding place in the room, generally in the dead center of the club. Often, his head will be tilted slightly to one side, like the RCA record label dog gazing at the Victrola Horn. His eyes will be focused on the stage, but not necessarily on the band itself as he sits motionless. Just another anal white guy is what most people near him must be thinking.

What they're unaware of is he's taping the show. He's wearing a long, untucked shirt that conceals a fanny pack. In that fanny pack is a portable DAT recorder. When he's taping covertly, the microphones could be anywhere on his body: clipped to a hat or poking out of a buttonhole in his shirt. Sometimes he has microphones attached to his glasses. Most times, since his taste in music runs toward struggling indie artists, he can simply approach the soundman and plug his DAT directly into the sound board, openly position a microphone anywhere in the club, or do both, as smaller clubs will sometimes not have all the instruments running through the sound board.

What started with his recording of a Who arena show in 1989 in Virginia with a terrible-sounding Walkman recorder has blossomed into a full-blown obsession involving more than $4000 spent on DAT recorders, high-tech microphones and tapes. At this point, he's seen more than 2000 performances, many of which he has taped and archived along a wall in his Brooklyn apartment, and all of which are listed in a database on his website ([www.thismanswork.com](http://www.thismanswork.com)).

It's important to note that Erik is an archivist?not a bootlegger?which is to say that he refuses to make any money from his taping and at the most will only trade tapes, although he rarely does even that due to time constraints. As an archivist, he's part of a growing subculture that keeps in touch via Internet mailing lists. While I can't vouch for other archivists, I have seen Erik in action. (The first time unwittingly?I stood directly behind him at a packed High Llamas in-store at Other Music and had no idea he was taping.) The main character traits I associate with him are the meticulousness of a brain surgeon and a method actor's sense of immersing himself in a role, this one being the next best thing to an invisible man.

With the advent of both DAT and the much cheaper mini-disc recorders (which serious archivists scoff at in terms of quality), it's never been easier for fans to record live shows. What's happened over the past 30 years has been a revolution of sorts; recordings of live shows were once high-priced rarities, mainly because the technology was lagging behind the cultural demand to hear everything an artist played. My friend Steve, arguably the most dedicated music fan I know, e-mailed me a description of the only show he ever taped, Donovan at Carnegie Hall in 1969:

"We used a cheesy portable reel-to-reel that used 5 inch tapes. The microphone wasn't built in; it was a real little microphone, on its own little stand, connected by wire to the deck. Well, we wanted to secure the mikestand to the armrest so we didn't have to hold it for the entire show. We needed a big rubber band or some string, but we had neither. My brainstorm was to use my twist-o-flex watchband to hold the mikestand in position. We set it up, and settled in to enjoy the show. I remember Donovan was sitting on a gigantic cushion, playing solo, the stage covered with flowers. We were spellbound! I honestly can't remember any of the songs he did, but it was wonderful. After the show, we couldn't wait to get home to hear the souvenir of a terrific show. We set up the tape, wait breathlessly for the concert to begin, and all we hear is 'tick, tick, tick, tick, tick...' for two hours with some guy singing way in the background, buried deeply under the sound of my watch!"

Erik explains the roots of his taping habits: "I just wanted to hear more of bands than what you could buy in a record store. I always wanted more. If I liked a Frank Zappa album, I'd want to buy them all. And I still wouldn't be satisfied, so I'd want to hear outtakes and live stuff. And the next step past that for me was to start recording shows myself."

Any serious music fan is, to some extent, obsessive. Like Erik, if I find myself enamored of a certain artist's work, I want to get my hands on everything. Last summer, I spent countless hours Napstering rarities and b-sides of many of my favorite bands, knowing three things: that buying these songs individually, most on import, would cost me hundreds of dollars; I could find the odd store in the Village selling bootlegs and take an even worse financial drubbing, with no guarantee of quality. The third is that record companies should be more cognizant of fans seeking out rarities and willing to organize these into marketable material, be it reasonably priced downloads or CD collections.

I've wondered where this obsession comes from, and why I'm such a goddamn nerd in this sense. Did our grandparents say things like, "Shit, I can't find Jolson doing the fifth take of 'Swanee River,' you know, the one where he really nails it"? I've never read anything insinuating that fans followed around Glenn Miller or Benny Goodman taping his every show as they would with bands like the Grateful Dead 25 years later. And the idea that our parents and grandparents would get that nuts over these artists strikes me as being outlandish, regardless of the fact that many of these musicians were far more talented than rock stars now regularly worshipped by millions. Still, when I discussed this bizarre cultural shift with Erik, using the example of a musical genius like Louis Armstrong not having scores of bootlegs to his name, his face lit up and he replied, "I actually have a DAT of a Louis Armstrong concert from 1954!"

So it seems to be a strange mix of the pop culture mania that was a driving force in the birth of rock music (and the resulting massive growth of the recording industry) simply coinciding with technological advances made available to the average fan in terms of personal recording. Erik admits that most tapers he knows are into current taping favorites (Dave Matthews Band, Pearl Jam) and jam bands (Phish, Allman Brothers, Black Crowes, etc.), but as his tastes are more eclectic and indie-based, he sees his role as documenting art: "I try to document anything that I think is worth documenting, and I'm more drawn to artists that don't already have a large following."

Some of those moments are astounding. His tape of an Antony and the Johnsons show at Joe's Pub is incredibly clear and delicate?one can hear the sound of forks touching plates and floor pedals shifting on the piano. During our interview, he put in a tape of Elvis Costello and Burt Bacharach playing in what should have been a taper's nightmare: an in-store appearance at the Union Square Virgin Megastore. The sound quality was incredible, as if he had recorded it in an acoustically perfect rehearsal hall. Another tape of John Southworth playing at the Living Room inadvertently captures the sound of food frying in the club's kitchen while Southworth plays melancholy chords on the piano, similar to the minute aural effects Pink Floyd would slip into the background of their studio recordings.

Erik points out that there are many variables in the quality of a recording, but it usually comes down to three things: the artist's performance, the audience and the sound. This means he relies on pure chance, as the artist may simply be up or down for a show, the audience could be overrun with complete idiots, the soundman could be an expert or incompetent, and the sound board itself could be good or bad. He cites a Chuck Prophet show at the Mercury Lounge from last October as a "transcendent" night, as Prophet was on, the audience was more dedicated fans than creepy drunkards and industry flacks, and the sound was impeccable.

This is usually not the case. "If a guy who wants to talk to his girlfriend throughout the show happens to be in the sweet spot, you have to put up with it. The real dilemma is whether or not to say anything. Generally, the kind of people who talk through a show are not the kind of people who if you ask them to be quiet will be quiet. And trying to initiate that conversation taints the recording as well."

One bad experience came at a Tom Waits show at the Beacon Theater: "There was someone two rows in front of me obnoxiously yelling out song titles. A couple rows behind me a guy yelled for him to shut up, and throughout the rest of the show, the first guy came back to us asking each of us who yelled that. Dealing with assholes like that makes it annoying for me to listen to the show now, more because it was personally a negative experience than because of the overall sound."

Erik has few set rules on taping, save that he never drinks at shows ("I've taped myself going for a piss a few times, but not anymore"). Generally, the audience tends to be the greatest intangible in his recordings, as simply where he's positioned in the club and the people randomly in the same area matter. "On a number of occasions," he reports, "some jerk who knows I'm taping will deliberately yell near or at me so he'll be recorded as well. Maybe he does it just to piss me off, as he can tell I get uptight about it. I used to not clap but then started fake clapping?I will clap, but not hard enough to make any sound. One time at a Lou Reed show at the Knitting Factory, I didn't clap after some song, and this guy beside me said, 'Don't you like this?' I nodded, and he said, 'So why aren't you clapping?' If anybody approaches me, it's typically to ask me if I taped the show, and they'll want a copy of it."

While an average fan doesn't even think about the soundman, next to the artist, this is the most important person in the room. The best band in the world can be made to sound like shit, and vice versa for the worst, depending upon how well the soundman does his job. As a fan myself, I tend to rate clubs based on personal comfort, whereas Erik goes more by sound, since this is what he'll take away from the night's performance.

"Most of the soundmen, once they realize I'm fairly altruistic and not in it for the money, I develop a good rapport with them," he says. This will usually be the first person he approaches to see if he can record a show. But even if the soundman gives his consent, he'll sometimes tell Erik to get permission from the band, and maybe even their manager. If he can avoid it, he will try not to approach the artist, but he says that's not just because of the hassles outlined in the previous sentence: "I want to be anonymous, as if I weren't really there, so as not to disrupt the art at all. I don't want the artist conscious of the fact that he or she is being taped."

Since most clubs don't have one set soundman, Erik can't identify any particular place in New York as having consistently great or terrible sound, although he has preferences. He favors venues like Bowery Ballroom, Mercury Lounge and Joe's Pub that tend to have a capable soundman using good equipment. Arlene Grocery is problematic?the sweet spot is an awkward area between the bar and the tables that will make him look like a stalker while he records, unless the place is packed, in which case he has to deal with the usual suspects. Once at the Living Room while taping a Joseph Arthur show, he put down his coat on a chair in the sweet spot so he could run a second DAT recorder into the sound board; upon returning, he found himself between Joan Osborne and Peter Gabriel, who was taping the show himself with a camcorder. (Osborne and Arthur play together on occasion, and Gabriel runs Real World, Arthur's label.)

"Irving Plaza has a notorious amount of red tape one must go through to officially tape a show there?basically getting the band to sign a document saying the recording won't ever be released/sold and the band is held responsible," he explains. He avoids venues like Roseland and Madison Square Garden because of their cavernous sound that's hard to overcome for even the best soundman. He's also not complimentary of the Supper Club, which has part of its p.a. system on the floor, leaking in far too much bass for a good recording.

While curious audience members have spotted him taping on a number of occasions and he's been caught with his equipment at the door of a club, he's only been caught taping a handful of times, once during a John Wesley Harding show at a club called Birchmere in Alexandria, VA, in 1992. He was still using a Walkman recorder at the time, and the small recording light gave him away in the darkness; ironically, according to Erik, Harding allows taping at his shows. (Before switching to the DAT recorder, he remedied the problem with a strip of electrical tape.)

The second came in 1994, while trying to film Ahmet and Dweezil Zappa's band, Z, with a camcorder. (Erik uses a camcorder occasionally, but far less than the DAT.) Dweezil pointed him out to a man Erik assumed to be their road manager, who snatched his camcorder out of his hand, took it back to the dressing room and told him he'd get it after the show if he was lucky. While he would have preferred being thrown out rather than having his personal property forcibly removed by a thug ("It wasn't even that great of a show"), he learned valuable lessons about club and band politics and the need for secrecy in his methods.

"What I'd ultimately like to do," Erik says, "is start a record label and work with the bands to get some of the quality stuff I have out there to the fans at a nominal price. The salient feature is to be working with the bands, not against them as bootleggers do. I haven't really done much towards this goal, however, because I'd always rather go out and see and tape more shows than sit at home and listen to stuff I already taped. I would also like to have a radio show featuring highlights of great shows. As with most things, it's just a matter of time and money."