Jono Manson is a musician who was at the forefront of the scene at The Nightingale in New York, a bar that served as a springboard for Blues Traveler and Spin Doctors among others. Since those days, he is known mostly as a producer. Silver Moon is his new album and it features guest appearances by Warren Haynes, Joan Osborne, and others. By phone he discussed the new album, the scene at The Nightingale, and his work as a producer of his own music and that of others.
What was your reaction when you finished Silver Moon?
I felt good about it, I still feel good about it. The record’s been done for some time, and I still like listening to it. That’s a really positive thing and somewhat unusual. I felt good about it. I gave myself the time and space to make the record I really wanted to make, which sometimes we’re able to afford ourselves more than others.
How long have you wanted to make this particular album?
For most singer-songwriters, when you’re done writing the songs for the record and then you record the songs, it’s on to the next project. My situation was complicated by the fact that I also produce records for other people. A lot of my creative energy gets spent doing that. At times some of those projects give me energy and inspiration. On the other hand, a lot of the juice I might otherwise be using for myself gets spent on helping other people realize their vision. In the case of this record, I made a conscious effort to stop and focus on writing the songs that I wanted on this record. When I went into the studio to record this album, I had 11 of the songs written. During the process of making the album, I wrote two more that I really liked and wound up putting them on the record. I allowed myself to plan it out to make sure I had the songs I felt belonged together before I went ahead and did it.
How does your approach change when producing your own music as opposed to someone else’s?
That’s a good question. I have a friend who once told me that self-production is like self-dentistry. There are certain things you shouldn’t try to do for yourself. You shouldn’t try to fill your own cavities. To be able to stay objective when it comes to your own music, it’s definitely harder. Generally speaking when I’m producing my own music, the process seems to take longer. I’m given the opportunity to second guess myself more. It’s something I’m aware of. As time goes on I’m able to put that in check to a greater extent. It’s still there. The main difference is being aware of that. Unlike when I’m working with another artist or band, I have to do my best to divorce myself from my inner questions or doubts, and just forge ahead.
The way I made this record was – apart from a handful of overdubs – it was recorded very live. The core band came into the studio. Quite a few of my vocals were recorded the day we came into the studio. That’s another way to keep myself in check. Also, that’s the way I like making records given the opportunity. Get everybody who’s supposed to be there in the same room and play the songs until it feels right. That also adds to the perception of the way it impacts you emotionally when you listen to it. It is interaction between people playing live. That’s another thing I felt was important for this project. I needed to take some of the second guessing out of the loop.
A lot of artists are perfectionists in their own way and have a hard time saying, “This is done and I’m happy with it.”
That can be a problem. Hopefully one of the things that comes with age and experience is the ability to step away from the canvas and be able to say, “Done.” If you keep meddling with it, you’re going to reach the point of diminishing return. I feel like with each passing project, I get closer to being in that place. Part of it is getting older, and you realize there’s less time to be messing around with stuff. Just get things done and move on to the next thing because you’re getting older. Part of the trick is being able to say, “Done. If I keep messing with it, I’m going to screw it up.”
Why do you think The Nightingale was such a hotbed for up-and-coming bands?
When things like that happen, so much is inexplicable in terms of why [it’s] this particular hole in the wall. The place was a dump physically. The ventilation was bad, the PA was shitty. CBGB was like that. Why all of a sudden do these dives become epicenters for creativity? Bands started playing The Nightingale in the early 80s. I was among the first to play there – before they even built the little stage. In New York in the mid- to late 70s, when the whole punk and new wave explosion happened, it was the end of the disco era. Live music was all of a sudden exploding everywhere. There was a sense of renewed energy. Back then I was living on the Lower East Side in the heart of that whole scene. There was excitement that something new was happening. People were re-inventing rock music. As a result, every little dive that could possibly fit a band started having live music. I was lucky in my early 20s to be playing in bands at that time. There were years where I played more than 365 gigs in a year – thanks to doing doubleheaders on some days – without ever leaving the island of Manhattan. There was so much going on. Gigs also paid. Considering we’re talking about 40 years ago. Bands playing in New York now don’t make as much as we were making 40 years ago. I’m talking about bar bands in small clubs. You could live on it. That gave us all the opportunity to live as musicians in a way that unfortunately kids now – it’s tough to make a living and pay the rent. My rent on the Lower East Side was $135 a month. All this to say that there was an energy of creativity that was happening. In that particular bar, The Worms, which is a band I played in, and a bunch of other New York bands started playing regular gigs in there. We all developed followings. It’s near NYU, so all the college kids would come down there and party. It was a very diverse crowd: age-wise ethnically, musically. It was a very eclectic crowd, and the music was also very eclectic. The Worms, we would jump from one style to another to another. It didn’t throw anybody off. It was the beginning of what they call jam bands. A lot of the bands at that time weren’t what you would call a jam band today, but we did jam. We played long gigs, one song flowed into the next.
I bring all this up with The Nightingale because you have to look at it in a larger context of what was happening in New York at that time. Generally there was an acceptance of new and different music. Nobody wanted to hear a cover band. I never played in a cover band in my life. There was a real spirit of corroboration between musicians and bands because there was so much work to go around. Nobody was territorial about their gig. Nobody felt like, “If somebody else plays this gig, then we won’t have this gig.” Everybody wanted everybody to succeed. We helped one another. Then younger bands like Blues Traveler came from Jersey. We booked them around in our scene. They started playing. Bands like Blues Traveler and Spin Doctors were kid bands at the time. They’re the ones, and rightly so because they’re all really talented, who became the better-known bands out of that scene. For each one of them, there was one that was just as great that you may not have ever heard of.
In More Fun in the New World, you read how the L.A. punk bands had the same ethos. They supported the other bands in the scene. Do you think that has been lost over time?
Part of the reason that unfortunately has been lost is just because of the practical thought that the music scene itself achieved so much. It’s become so hard for bands to get a foothold that they become focused on their own trip. It’s a lot of things, and money can be at the root of it. I think it’s also just because there are moments in history where new things pop up and a new movement happens. Who knows what the next one of those things will be? We live in a very different time. Back then if you wanted to hear a band, you had to go hear them. Now you can find anything you want to hear on your phone. I’m not a curmudgeon or a Luddite. I embrace technology. So much of the work I do benefits from the digital world. Like the fact that I can work on an album in Santa Fe, where my studio is and have someone in Pakistan play a hand drum and send me the file almost in real time. That is amazing. On the other side, that’s just one of the reasons why things are so much different.
It comes down to competition.
There’s less places to play. On so many levels, the music business now as opposed to 40 years ago is so different. It’s much harder to get paid for your work, both live and in terms of your recorded intellectual property. I think that’s why so many young bands do vinyl. People turn back to vinyl because it’s cool, but also because it’s a good business model. People buy them, and they can’t be duplicated for free. It is economics and so many other things. There are so many places – Muscle Shoals, Athens, Georgia, – where unlikely things happened. Some of the things are tangible, but so much is inexplicable as to why it happens and when.
What would you be doing if you weren’t making music?
I was just talking with my bass player from my band in the early 80s about that very thing. The one thing I’ve thought about, and I have no idea how, but I’d like to be a pastry chef. The only reason I think I could be qualified is that I wake up very early in the morning. It’s a weird defect that I have. Even though my vocation is nocturnal, I still wake up at like 4:30 in the morning. If I’m already able to be up that hour, I could be a pastry chef. They usually go in at four or five in the morning to make all the pastries and be ready by the time people are ready for breakfast pastries. I spent a lot of time in Italy producing bands. Their pastry culture is honored. I’ve learned a few things about that. The piece of the puzzle that I don’t have in place is knowing how to bake. I very much doubt it will ever happen, but it’s something I’ve thought would be fun to do.
Silver Moon will be available everywhere on April 10. Order your copy here.
Photo credit: Marc Millman
