Yes, but if the mix that was handed over to the mastering engineer already had limited dynamic range, there's not much they can do about it. From what Tony Visconti has said about his production approach (eg. in this book) it's highly likely this is what happened.
Come on, that's the sound of transformers/power/tape/rock and roll!
Well spotted though. Ears like yours are the reason producers like me are so paranoid. That said, there are a couple of legitimate reasons why that hiss might be there:
1. If it was produced by the original E-piano, then...
No, I didn't know that, but it makes a lot of sense. That would have been another source of ennui surrounding Moz in 1997 - along with the music industry, the fanbase, and the state of music in general (Brit pop was old news; old Morrissey must have seemed prehistoric). I love many songs from...
Oh, absolutely! It's a real guitar masterpiece, and there's a certain dynamic between Alain and Boz - Alain playing stark, economic melodies, Boz adding the acoustic "chug" - that wasn't present on the Kill Uncle tour and can probably be attributed to Mick Ronson (particularly evident on...
Interesting. I've always thought of Your Arsenal as one of the production peaks myself (definitely one of the musical and lyrical peaks), but I was listening to it the other day and wondering...
As someone who's dabbled in production myself, almost invariably with rock bands, there's something...
Dodgy tuning job on one of the "beds" in the first verse. Thought that was more Drake's thing, but here we are, I suppose.
Now the important question: where the f*** is Boz?! Are we certain he wasn't trying to saying "No Boz" at the end there? Ominous
Wasn't the alleged quote "statistically only 20% of Americans voted for you know who"? Americans, not "Americans eligible to vote." If you're going to be pedantic, at least get the pedantry right.
The Operation
Shoplifters Of The World Unite
Little Man, What Now?
Istanbul
Lost
The National Front Disco
Late Night, Maudlin Street
Mute Witness
The Edges Are No Longer Parallel
Something Is Squeezing My Skull
The Teachers Are Afraid Of The Pupils
Friday Mourning
I Am Hated For Loving
Whatever...
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