Steve Albini, legendary producer of Nirvana and Pixies, dies: ‘I didn’t want to sing stupid things into his microphone’

“Rudy Trouvé wanted to work with Steve Albini,” Daan Stuyven remembers. “And so did we, but we thought: that’s never gonna work. But he listened to our music and said: it’s okay, just come.”

And so Dead Man Ray ended up recording their third studio album Cago (2002) in Chicago, in the Electrical Audio studio of Steve Albini, the man behind the controls on the recording of legendary records such as Surfer Rosa (1988) by Pixies, Pod from The Breeders (1990) and In Utero (1993) by Nirvana. “That was very intense and intimate,” says Stuyven. “He slept in his studio, and so did we. We were immersed in his world for five weeks.”

The members of Dead Man Ray were perhaps the first, but certainly not the last Belgians to visit Albini. Rocket cannon (front RKTKN#22015) and Kapitan Korsakov (for Physical Violence Is The Least of My Priorities2016) passed there, as did Gruppo Di Pawlowski, who recorded their debut album there Neutral Village Massacre (2016) recordings. “The first thing he said when we arrived was: ‘No drugs here, because the neighborhood already wants us out,’” says Mauro Pawlowski. “And: ‘If you want to work around the clock, no problem.’ We didn’t do that, but it was minus 24 degrees outside at the time, so we stayed inside. And we worked a lot. Steve Albini was a hard worker.”

This is also reflected in his endless CV, which reads like a who’s who of the better alternative music of the last 40 years. From the early records of The Jesus Lizard and PJ Harveys Rid of Me (1993) to the best work of heavenly noisemakers such as Mogwai, Cloud Nothings, Sunn O))) and Ty Segall: they all came knocking on Albini’s door, who as a journalism student was in the front row when the punk scene in Chicago was born and the punk ethos – the visceral aversion to mainstream and commercialism in the first place – would remain true throughout his life.

“It was the first time I felt like there was a culture that represented the irreverence and craziness and mania that my friends and I displayed,” he recalled of that period in The Guardianand Albini became the lynchpin of bands like Big Black (title of the second album: Songs About Fucking), Rapeman (he later expressed his regret about the choice of name) and especially Shellac, a trio with which he has released five albums since 1994.

Their sixth album, To All Trainsis expected on May 17, 10 days after Albini succumbed to a heart attack at the age of 61.

No bullshit

Yet he will mainly be remembered for his work behind the buttons. “He didn’t want to make himself feel like a ‘producer’,” says Pawlowski. “He was one audio engineer. He said, ‘I am here to serve you.’ We knew he worked like this: ‘You play and I’ll record’. But with a very good sound. He did not interfere with the content. He said, ‘It’s your record, your music. Just tell me if there’s anything I need to do.’ He basically did everything you asked, and we didn’t ask for much. We mainly wanted to play live. Don’t talk too much, just work, that’s how he was. No fuss, no hassle.”

Albini was known for his raw, energetic, unpolished and pure underground sound, which could make a record sound as if a band was playing it live in your living room – it was that sound that Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain was looking for after the radio-friendly mix Nevermind (1992), and the reason why Nirvana got into the studio with Albini for In Utero. Albini, who has never had a high opinion of the entertainment industry, got along well with the band, but later described the management and label people surrounding the group as “the greatest pieces of shit I ever met.”

Ultimately, Albini’s raw mixes became popular In Utero remastered, and the album’s singles were given a radio-friendly mix by Scott Litt, much to Albini’s chagrin. Still, it would In Utero being the record that cemented Albini’s reputation. Pawlowski still remembers how Albini prepared the drum kit for the recording “in that big studio”. “The first time our drummer was on that one snare drum hit, we thought: that’s it. That is In Utero. That is that sound.”

Stuyven: “He knew incredibly well what he was doing. It seemed as if he had come to earth to record beautiful music. He had a devout dedication to that job. He and his staff all wore overalls with the studio’s logo and that studio was all about craftsmanship. You couldn’t fool him and he didn’t want to fool the listener. What you see is what you get: he wanted to record everything as dry and as brutal as possible, without effects.

“At one point Wouter Van Belle, our keyboardist, asked: ‘Can I plug in my MIDI cable (MIDI is an interface for digital instruments, EWC)?’ And he replied: ‘I’ve heard about that, but I’m sure we don’t have it.’(laughs) You simply couldn’t hide. He made the music feel awfully close to your skin, and he didn’t cover anything up in the mix.”

Guardian angel

Albini could probably have entertained the bands he worked with for days with stories about the legendary artists he had worked with, anecdotes about the iconic records he was behind the controls. “I once heard him laughing very loudly on the phone,” Pawlowski remembers. “It later turned out that he had been calling the sisters of The Breeders.” But otherwise, Albini did not dwell too long on his achievements. “He didn’t want to show off that at all. That wasn’t a pose or anything – he meant it. Really one chic guy, very calm, very sympathetic, very funny too. You came in there, it sounded good, and the atmosphere was chill. That’s another way to do it.”

Stuyven: “He had little facial expressions. But sometimes I could almost see through the glass smile on his face, with some texts. That also forced me to write the best lyrics possible. I didn’t want to sing stupid things into his microphone.” If it had been up to Stuyven, he would have continued working on that record ten times longer, but the rest of the band stopped me. And then I would have de-Albini’d that record too. Retrospectively, I am very proud of it Cago. It is a very brutal, very honest record, and therefore perhaps also timeless.”

His death, due to a heart attack, comes unexpectedly. “He was extremely intelligent and sensitive. And he was a health freak,” says Stuyven. “I remember that Kim Deal (bassist with Pixies and singer-guitarist with The Breeders, EWC) came into the studio, but he was ten times stronger and ten times healthier than all those rock stars he worked with. His optimism and positivism rose above everyone. He gloried in his role as guardian angel.”