House of Faith Recording

      Bart Thurber has only two rules for his House of Faith recording studio. The first is: When Bart's around, keep it down. 'I'm an old man," he explains - My hearing is shot" The second is when you call your girlfriend or boyfriend from his studio phone, you have to say "I love you" in front of him.
      One reluctant guitarist who had never told his girlfriend that he loved her- even though he'd been with her for seven years- gamely played by the House of Faith rules. "He said, 'l love you,' Bart remembers fondly. "Then you hear on the other line, 'Have you been drinking. Do I have to come down and pick you up?'" Most second- and third-time visitors to his studio learn to leapfrog the embarrassing rule with a businesslike compromise, "Bart says I have to tell you I love you."
      An unwritten rule is not to call him a producer or an engineer. He prefers the engineer-less title "recording guy." "I can't stand when people call me an engineer, and I'm not a producer because I don't put my stamp on something." he explains. "So I'm the recording guy."
      Except for these two or three rules, Bart Thurber hasn't played by most music industry, monetary or anal-retentive standards in his four years as top recording guy of local bands. The roster of bands he's recorded reads like a local Lollapalooza Festival: heavy groove-oriented rockers like Minimal Criminal, Audio Fungus, Riverthings, Bridget and Shovelhead; soul and R&B-influenced bands like The Kindred, Durango 95 and the Odd Numbers; defiant punk acts Hemi, Diesel Queens, Spit Muffins, Guttersluts, Slip and Suck dolls; pigeonhole-defying acts Dieselhed and Oxbow, and the list goes on. Many of the demos that have crossed the music desk of any local paper, fanzine or radio station bear Bart's stamp of authenticity.
      Thurber estimates that more than 600 bands have recorded at House of Faith. "We get them on the way up, or on the way down," he says. "We don't want them on top, that's my motto. It's like the farm leagues. I'm trying to give people a shot at the majors. When they get up on that ladder, they're on their own. I help them up as much as I can to get up there."
      His Palo Alto- based House of Faith studio is loved and revered by musicians in the Bay Area because of the easy-going attitude and Bart's ability to make a band sound like R.E.M. at Fugazi prices. "He has very low prices, that's what got us to him originally," says guitarist and lead vocalist Jim Brusseau who has recorded at House of Faith with Oilfish and his latest band, Drug. "The reason we kept going back is because we were really pleased with the quality of the recordings. Bart isn't just an engineer. He has a lot of ideas he interjects very nicely and without ego. We end up using about 99 percent of his suggestions and it has embellished a lot of our tunes."
      Bart's "anything goes" attitude is reflected in his House of Faith studio, a grotty, graffiti-covered four-room squat off of El Camino Real in Palo Alto. There's no staff, no hot water, no janitorial service and no plush, smoked-glass-lined rooms. He works with a Fostex B-16 reel-to-reel and a 20 -track Tascam M-520 soundboard, both ancient machines by industry standards. He works ten to 15 hours a day, seven days a week, very often late into the night. Food? He lives on 79-cent cans of soup.
      Thurber doesn't advertise his services; it's all word of mouth. This cost-effective marketing has sufficed for him: House of Faith is booked until September. "When a band comes in, they know somebody," he says. "It's so much more friendlier that way."
      The going rate is an unheard of $125 for ten hours. He's been known to have "bargain month" and "punk rock" specials. One popular deal was snapped up quick by several bands and helped fill his cupboard. "We got an all-day recording session for $75 and a can of soup, remembers Rick Kendrick of Santa Cruz's 11-piece soul stirrers Durango 95. "It was for the whole day. We were in there for 16 hours." For the record, the deal was $75, a can of soup and a Scratcher lottery ticket.
      For Bart it's just good business. "My thing is to keep costs low as absolutely possible. To a lot of bands that come in here, $100 is a lot of money to spend on something. I really like doing younger bands. That's my absolute favorite."
      Dave Baisa, guitarist and vocalist for R&B power trio The Odd Numbers, has recorded a few times with Thurber. "He's the easiest guy to get along with in the world. When you go into a recording studio, you want to be pretty low stress and be cool with the people you work with. Bart is ultra low stress."
      Danny Schlemeil, drummer from San Francisco's dizzy yodelers Dieselhed, is more succinct: "Bart is God, but I bet 44 people have already said that."
      Looking at the graffiti-covered walls, the praises come across like a huge sheetrock thank-you card. The Magic Marker ink on the main sound room ceiling is typical of local opinion: "Bart on his shittyest day is still better than Albini on his best day," a knock on Steve Albini, who produced Nirvana's In Utero.
      "I wrote all that" Bart jokes, referring to the pen marks left by bands. "I'm a firm believer in positive reinforcement." The tags cover every open space on the walls, the doors, the ceiling, the windows, the baffling and, naturally, the bathroom. Most of the scrawling are bands leaving their mark, via a logo or some potency boast. Some are humorous, like the one left on the lavatory wall by Dieselhed to the mostly female members of Stone Fox: "Stone Fox: We always put the seat down. Dieselhed."
      Thanks to his reputation as low budget studio wizard, a House of Faith recording can make an impact on the local music scene. A band with a tremendous live sound can transfer the energy to a tape or CD without losing something in the translation. They can make a cheap, effective marketing tool for less than a fancy dinner for four.
      With Bart's help, hundreds of Local bands have managed to sound better and the local music scene is richer for it. The Spit Muffins made the rotation at the local college radio stations. Local promoters booked Shovelhead for an opening slot on Mary's Danish and Screaming Trees gigs. The young band Minimal Criminal got their first news clip: a positive review in a gritty fanzine. "There's nobody bigger in this area who has helped local music." Drug's Jim Brusseau says. "Before, we were just a couple of friends getting together and jamming and he really helped establish our sound. We felt like a band after we got out of here."

Sound Guarding
      Thurber's interest in studio pyrotechnics started innocently. Since the age of 15, he played guitar for a scattering of country, thrash metal and mod bands. In the early '80s, his new-wave band Quiet Room had the unfortunate experience of opening for Duran Duran at the trendy San Francisco danceteria, the I-Beam. His last guitar gig was in KFJC (89.7FM) favorites, Whipping Boy.
      While plugging away in these and other bands, Bart was the guy who would tape the sessions and play back the results. "It was a hobby that got out of control," he says.
      To earn his keep, Thurber worked the usual odd jobs. Eventually, he found employment putting together circuit boards for computer work stations. The job enabled him to nickel and dime a studio together: amps, racks, reel-to-reel, cords, soundboard, headphones, mics, DAT machine and all the rest. In March 1990, he opened up House of Faith, copping the name from an old house where many of his friends in bands congregated. The first band he recorded was a San Francisco band named Orange. The first graffiti is attributed to the now defunct Guttersluts. He's been going nonstop ever since.
      The frat-house conditions are part of the House of Faith charm. The local police are friendly, Bart says, and even the Palo Alto graffiti task force looks the other way. But Thurber and his kerranging clients don't get along with their warehouse neighbors, especially one fellow who called the sheriff's department and accused Bart and his music makers of worshipping the devil. The name House of Faith has stimulated more than one curious phone call from nonmusical, spirituality seeking folks.
      Bands aching to achieve nirvana, or Nirvana, wouldn't have it any other way. "When you see the studio, it is real run-down," says Brusseau. "Every inch of space is covered with graffiti. It is contradictory to the kind, nice person he is. You would think a rowdy, drug addict loser would run the place and that is not the case at all. He's mild-mannered and not too offended by much of anything."

Urban Blight
      A reedy fellow with long brown hair and sideburns, Bart resembles a thin, laidback Howard Stern with an easy laugh. When asked if he's worried about getting his rental deposit back, he laughs and replies, "I already got it back."
      It's good that he did because House of Faith is living on borrowed time. The nine-acre stretch of land on which the studio resides was sold a year ago in March to make room for a new health-care, research and education facility for the Palo Alto Medical Foundation. The planned 300,000-square-foot campus will take over the Urban Lane area, located on the east side of El Camino Real, midway between the University Avenue and Embarcadero intersections.
      The plans have already been drawn up. Most of Thurber's neighbors have been kicked out already. The 30-day eviction notice can appear in the mailbox at any time. In the meantime, Thurber concentrates on recording as many bands as possible until the city pulls the plug.
      Thurber is humorously concocting ways to go out. He's considering inviting a bunch of bands down to perform "Louie, Louie." He also joked about getting the bands to tear it down themselves, letting them remove their favorite graffiti-scrawled sheetrock panels a la the Berlin Wall.
      Discussing the end of a loving four-year relationship could send anyone to a therapist's couch, but Bart sees the lighter side. "I'm always wondering how the bands live, what their rooms look like," he says smiling. "When you hang out with someone for ten hours in the studio, you get to know them pretty well. You feel like friends at the end of the day. When I get out of here, I feel I should go stay at everyone's house one night. That should take care of me for the next five years."
      On this day, the San Jose punk outfit Slip is recording a new three-song, seven-inch single at the House. As Bart sets up the mics in one room, a Palo Alto construction crew has pulled up outside of House of Faith and begins tearing up the concrete directly outside the front door. The jackhammer racket barges inside the studio walls. "Too bad you're not into industrial music," Bart quips to the band's lead singer, Gordy. Bart returns to his swivel chair behind the soundboard, pods up his studio mic and requests drum beats to get the proper levels. "Readyset? Kickereeno…snare…first tom, second tom."
      Bart listens intently to the run-through of a new Slip track, "'The Drinking Song." The band plays five takes before they settle on one. He knows his board like a blind person knows Braille, isolating bass lines and drum tracks. He notices the usual things that producers, er, recording guys do: missed kickdrums, out-of-tune guitars, botched chords. He specializes in a very live sound, punctuated by a woody bass tone, made by hooking up a microphone directly to the speaker cabinet.
      Bart approaches recording from a fan's perspective. His yardstick is that he wants to be able to listen to a recording six months from now and still be jazzed about it. "He's not into overproducing things, says Shovelhead guitarist John Haugh. "A lot of other studios will spend $10,000 on a new machine and have to use it on everything. Whereas Bart knows his equipment very well, knows his facility well, and knows how to get a good sound quickly. He doesn't ruin the real sound of the instruments."
      Hough has recorded at other studios but reserves his highest praise for Bart's minimalist sound-sculpting work. "He's very knowledgeable about all types of music, especially ones that most people don't like to work with- like the punk acts," Hough says. "He gets one of the best low-end guitar sounds I've heard from a lot of studio spaces. The rooms are really dead, not a lot of reverb, very earthy, a great tone there. He knows how to get a good sound out of guitar and bass.
      "Bart's is a place you can get a lot of work done. He's more interested in getting product out than reaping huge benefits. There's not many people in the world like him."

Do Unto Others, Then Record
      Bart, in turn, relates well to his extended family of all ages, musical backgrounds and hair lengths. "Musicians are pretty much the most entertaining people on earth," he says. "They're always goofing on each other. Sometimes I think I should pay them because I'm sitting here totally entertained the whole time.
      "My whole goal is to record everyone in the world at least once so I don't have to pay for a show for the rest of my life," Bart laughs. "I keep saying that, but then I never get out of here."
      He was getting such a reputation as a hermit that local bands held a Bart Thurber benefit at F/X on Aug. 19, 1992, with Grinch, Hemi, Diesel Queens, Drug, Byproducts, Mormyrid, the Nines, Bombs for Whitey, Spit Muffins, Guttersluts and Hell on Stilts. The purpose of the benefit was to get Bart out of the studio to see some of the bands he produced. Then, the soundman hired for the night had to attend a drunken driving class. Bart ended up working the soundboard at his own benefit.
      In one inspired fit, Bart recorded five bands in ten hours. His record is 22 songs in 14 hours. He's also seen some "really good fights" and he learned a lesson from one such fisticuffs. "I could hear it over the microphones; smack! smack!, this slapping fury," he laughs. "Right after they were done, they go, 'man, did you record that?' That's one thing I learned: never stop the tape."
      The East Bay band Neurosis recorded at Bart's the day of the devastating Oakland Hills fire. The band members watched familiar places enshrouded in chaos and smoke on TV. "In the meantime, we're mixing, and they're a real apocalyptic band musically," Bart remembers. "We're mixing this music about the end of the world and how we're destroying all the resources while everything is going up in flames. It was kind of creepy."
      Bart began taking snapshots of the bands after sessions last year to preserve the moment. "I have this feeling that once I stop doing this, I'm going to say. 'Did that really happen? Did I really sit in that building for four or five years recording every day?"
      To keep his mind off the impending doom, Bart keeps busy. "I can tell you I'm going to be here 30 days from now, that's about it. I never ever thought I would be here this long."

Faith No More
      One day later, it's April Fool's Day. That afternoon, his phone rings. It's House of Faith's landlord. In measured tones, the landlord drops the bomb. House of Faith receives its 30-day notice. It's not an April Fool's Day joke, either. "All he said was, 'Bart. It's time.' " Thurber wants to stress that he holds no animosity toward the landlord, who allowed Bart and his bands to completely take over the warehouse. It was just a question of when.
      Two days later, Bart is in his usual spot, behind the board, recording a Fresno punk band, Urizl. He calls a five-minute break before final mixdown. Bart locks his hands behind his long hair and contemplates the future.
      The bands signed up until September will have to wait. "They all knew it was a 50-50 chance of getting in. I'm dreading calling them back."
      Thurber has a few ideas. He's thought about starting a label, putting out seven-inch singles and using parts of the walls for cover sleeves. He thought about packing everything into a van and traveling to different parts of California, taking his studio skills on the road to help undeveloped scenes. He expressed interest in recording the San Francisco aggro-rock stars the Mieces and the East Bay's burgeoning pop/hard-core stars Jawbreaker and Green Day. The realization he won't be able to complete his commitments to the bands has him nervously joking that they will hate or desert him.
      Bart hasn't yet spotted any warehouses that fit his low-maintenance requirements. He is looking a little and is interested in resettling somewhere in the Bay Area. He already picked out the name of the studio: House of Faith. "Everyone would hate me if I left," he half-seriously worries. "It probably will not be in Palo Alto because this was the last area left. "I'm really committed to having a place where people can come and not spend a lot of money and get a good recording. I hope I can find the right place."

Burning Down the House
      The April 30 closing-day festivities are still up in the air. Bart, as usual, is booked up that day and plans to record until the end. But when the last reel is in the can, expect something for the books. His fantasy is to gather everyone who has ever recorded at House of Faith on Wells Avenue for one last photo with Bart perched on the rooftop. Who would play? "Watch, they will all come out with fists swinging, " he laughs. How about a real "Battle of the Bands," a member of Urizl suggests. "Yeah. The last band who makes it to the rooftop gets to play!" The thought of thousands of tattooed punks and rockers engaged in a hair-pulling battle royale cracks everyone up.
      Most of all, Bart hopes the final gathering will erase a lot of the competitiveness that he sees on the graffiti-covered walls and the jealous crabbing he overhears. "It would be so cool if everyone came down and met each other. Just think, at gigs for years to come, everyone would know each other. It's always so much better at a gig if you know the bands that are playing.
      "It would be like, 'Hey man, what's up? Didn't I see you the day they tore down House of Faith and they hauled Bart off to jail? What happened to him anyway? Let's bust him out.' "