By all accounts, Days of Open Hand was not the easiest record to make. Despite doubts on the part of her label, A&M, Vega and Sanko decided to produce it themselves, rather than use producers Lenny Kaye and Steve Addabbo (Vega's comanager), who helmed her first two albums. But what seemed like a simple idea — recording the bulk of the album in a makeshift studio in Vega and Sanko's apartment — wound up taking from July 1989 to February 1990. ''It almost felt like Tears for Fears or something,'' Visceglia jokes.
Meanwhile, A&M, which had hoped Vega would work with a ''name'' producer, waited patiently. ''I knew it would be a more atmospheric record than usual,'' Steve Ralbovsky, A&M's senior vice president of artists & repertoire, recalls. ''My anxiety level rose and fell throughout the project.''
As a ''little bit of insurance,'' Ralbovsky hired engineer Hugh Padgham (known for his work with the Police, among others) to spruce up the final mixes of Days of Open Hand — make the vocals and instrumentation more defined, the arrangements punchier and more vivid. That is the order of the day on a late afternoon in February in a recording studio in Manhattan's unglamorous garment district. As Padgham works in the control room nearby, Vega takes a tea break in the studio's kitchen. Inevitably, conversation turns to the slew of nouveau-folkies who found themselves with record contracts, critical acclaim, and MTV exposure in the wake of the success of ''Luka.''
''The audience that I had with 'Luka' may decide now that I suck,'' Vega laughs dryly. ''Or, 'Now there are all these other women — what do we need her for?'''
That question lingers over Days of Open Hand. ''We talked about it (the new competition) in slightly flip ways,'' A&M's Ralbovsky says. ''It was always with a joke or a smile. But I don't think it'll be harder for her. She's a trailblazer for a lot of what's happened.'' He adds, ''Artists need a year to recharge, these days, after a huge album. And the public's used to waiting that long between albums now.''
This is not the first time the word artist has come up in discussions of Vega. Indeed, her meticulous work methods (''Tired of Sleeping'' began life about eight years ago) place her in the noble tradition of Paul Simon and Leonard Cohen (Vega's admitted hero) — writers who work and rework turns of phrase until the precision and imagery are just right. In 1990, a time when rappers spin out dizzying, articulate rhymes on the spot and a three-minute video can tell whatever story needs to be told, such a notion seems quaint and old-fashioned. Is this any way to run a career?
''Some people always want you to be more political, or they want you to be more extreme,'' Vega says. ''Some people want you to have more choruses that you can sing along to. They want you to write happier songs. I feel now I've gotten my own parameters mapped out. I don't feel like I have to shave my head or write 'Talkin' 'Bout a Revolution.' I feel I can just work on my own path.''
A studio assistant drops off a bag of groceries to shore up for the hours of work ahead, and Vega returns to the control room. There, Padgham is completing the final mix of ''Room Off the Street,'' an acoustic number from the new album that features such ancient Middle Eastern instruments as the dumbek and nay. These are not the types of instruments normally associated with a major record by a major pop star released by a major conglomerate. But Suzanne Vega wouldn't have it any other way.You Might Also Like
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