There comes a moment in every young person's life when a nod is given in his or her general direction, the long-awaited affirmation that the time has come. For some, it is a call to the army, for some the acceptance into a collegiate institution. For me, it was playing the glockenspiel on the debut album of my band, the Humming. Market value of the microphone that recorded the glockenspiel part: $6000. Cost of studio time while recording the part: $79.10. Wooden spoon I used to play the part with: $1.77.

In last week's article I addressed basic tracks and the first set of overdubs. "The Studio Three" will further explore the overdubbing process and enter the relaxing and rewarding life of studio mixing. The most important of the "overdub" days were those that we spent singing. The Humming's tunes specialize in three and four part harmonies, so getting solid vocal takes was more important (if but slightly) than my glockenspiel part. We sang into a Neumann microphone, a piece of German engineering that can send shivers down the spine. Look carefully to behold the soft, silver metals and finely knit wires, I was told. Don't get too close though, don't touch. You wouldn't want to disrupt its vibe. The Neumann did not err in translating our voices to tape, day in and day out. And there were many days, endless days during "overdub hell," as our producer and engineer Matthew Ellard commonly refers to it.

Overdubbing is always the most time-consuming part of an album. It is analogous to working on a painting: rather than a live recording (which, to continue the metaphor, would be akin to a photograph), where one moment is captured in time, the studio album is built up from a base, with layers added, changed, added again and perfected. On top of vocals, our colleague Frisbay added his trombone, flute, trumpet and organ parts in the remaining few, hectic days.

Despite the time crunch, the overdub period allowed for the most spontaneity. Matthew would say, "this bridge needs something," and we would whip up vocal harmonies or horn lines on the spot. We plucked out banjo parts on three or four songs, though we kept only one sample. The beloved glockenspiel was a spur of the moment decision, which proved difficult, as the studio's version of the instrument was a few blocks short of a glock (the thing looked like the grin of an unlucky hockey player). This improvising was exciting and nerve-wracking. It was creative energy in demand. There wasn't much time to "think of something else."

Mixing, on the contrary, was our calm after the storm. More accurately put, the band caught a bit of listening R & R, while Matthew skillfully flipped through dials as if he were bringing down a 747 in an ice storm. We listened to each instrument and voice in isolation to get the right sound. Slight changes in the EQ of a vocal track can affect the whole tone of a song. Should it sound bittersweet but with leather jacket and tattoos, or bittersweet like a lone man in an ice cream truck with a broken horn? Pre-dawn or post-dusk, as they say.

Though we had already picked the tunes and laid down the tracks, the identity of the album was far from secure. The band had one lengthy discussion as to how "rock" this rock'n'roll album should sound. A pop album is mixed quite differently than a rock one, the former emphasizing vocals, and the latter boosting instrumentation. We clearly weren't interested in a too-smooth, pop sound, but had to admit that the album wouldn't exactly cut it down at Club Death, either.

Some songs were more "rock" than others, and in the end we were able to shape each one without disrupting the continuity of the overall sound. The snare and bass drum on "Isn't It Strange" got a "big kick in the arse," to quote Ellard, while "Coast of California" kept its mellow-thing, true to the state it was written in. Meanwhile, the glockenspiel part got blended in. It's still there, believe me, but let's just say it's not upstaging the lead vocal.

The drawback of hearing a song come together during mixing is having to listen to that song three hundred times in a four-hour period. The novelty of a melody begins to wear thin: "Coast of Cali..." Cali...Cali. I started to lose perspective on songs that felt full of perspective when I wrote them. "New" hit albums, as seen in the public eye, are more accurately known by their bands as "year-and-a-half-in-the-making-painstaking-hoping-and-praying" hit albums.

But, damn, did it sound good by the end of the week. It was thrilling to hear these tunes completed, etched onto tape, all the parts in place and all the notes sounding just right. My account of mixing, then, in short: Matthew flipped this and that, we discussed this and that and suddenly, we had an album. It was a brilliant moment, albeit late at night, when my exhaustion only allowed me to register it with a dull thud of a smile. Needless to say, we still managed to make it over to the Hong Kong for a scorpion bowl to celebrate. The straws were extra long and the drink extra smooth.

With the music recorded and mixed, it was time to get organized for "post-production." In the concluding installment, I'll explain what to do at a photo shoot in Back Bay, Boston, and how our sound technician Brook became known as "helmet-head" to hundreds of grade school children. Until then, sing a ditty. Be proud. Your moment may come soon, glockenspiel or no.

Ty Gibbons '99 is a member of the Humming.

He can be reached at ty@thehumming.com.