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enjoy myself, but when it comes time to make the record I expect everyone’s full attention.
    Until after I made The Stranger with Billy Joel in 1977, I engineered most of the records I produced. When my partnership with Billy flourished, I devoted myself to working closely with him on style and approach, and relinquished the recording duties to engineers whom I trusted, like Jim Boyer and Bradshaw Leigh (both of whom I trained). It was an excellent choice; being able to concentrate on the artist and their needs without worrying aboutthings like Are we getting this on tape? made producing far more enjoyable.
    Preparation, however, doesn’t guarantee that once we begin recording there won’t be tension in the air.
    There are times when making records is tough: the recording console might be giving us hell, or the instruments might not sound right (pianos and string instruments are particularly affected by temperature and humidity).
    Maybe the singer is having an off day and can’t find his or her groove, or we spend hours working on a guitar overdub that should take thirty minutes.
    And it’s almost guaranteed that every album you make will have at least one song that says, “If you think I’m gonna give up my lyric and melody to you so easily, you’ve got another thing coming!”
    Minor annoyances such as these affect every artist from time to time, regardless of stature or experience. The key to overcoming them is persistence.
    While rehearsing “Still Crazy After All These Years” in New York with pianist Barry Beckett in 1975, Paul Simon experimented with many different keys. For Beckett, it was bewildering.
    “Try C,” Paul suggested.
    Barry played the song; Paul shook his head.
    “No, no—how about C-sharp?”
    Barry tried another run-through; Paul mused.
    “Nope. I’ve got it—D.”
    The deliberation continued as the pair tested E-flat, A-flat—every key that Paul could think of.
    As a founding member of the esteemed Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section (based in Muscle Shoals, Alabama), Beckett was accustomed to nailing down a part in thirty minutes or less. He adored Paul and wanted to please him, but after three or four hours of concentrated effort on “Still Crazy After All These Years,” his exasperation spilled over.
    “Paul, this isn’t going to work,” he said. “I will never get this song— ever .”
    I was amused.
    What Barry underestimated was Paul’s resolve, and his perfectionism. I’ve seen Paul toil for hours on an instrumental track, only to come back the next day and scrap everything because he’d made changes he thought would improve the song.
    With “Still Crazy After All These Years,” Barry ended up being inspired by Paul’s tenacity. They kept at it, and after a bit more work they agreed on an appropriate key.
    The bonus was that by the end of the day, Barry knew the tune so well he could anticipate Paul’s phrasing. When the band came in to record it, they went straight to it without rehearsing. It didn’t take long at all to cut the record.
    Nothing was more ironic than the weeks it took for Billy Joel’s band to perfect “Get It Right the First Time,” a song we recorded for The Stranger in 1977. The tune has a complex rhythm, and it took a while to coalesce.
    As I recall, we would start a date by trying “Get It Right the First Time,” and, when it didn’t click, put it aside to work on another song such as “She’s Always A Woman To Me,” or “Movin’ Out.” We’d come back to “Get It Right the First Time” later in the session, and when it still didn’t click, we’d turn to yet another tune—“Only the Good Die Young,” perhaps.
    At the end of each of The Stranger sessions I’d say, “How about trying ‘Get It Right the First Time’?” It got to where the guys would anticipate coming back to it, and when we did, they’d moan. “Come on, we’re not doing it again, are we? Fucking song doesn’t wanna be born!” This went on for more than a