'I Was a Music Producer For The Strokes and The Libertines'

My dad was a New York City jazz musician who played tenor saxophone. By the time I was 4 years old, I was already offended by the brash sound of the big band records he played in our home. But when he sang those eerie American folk songs about desperate cowboys whose love affairs had gone terribly wrong in the Wild West, well—I was all ears!

Those lyrics and melodies gave me a feeling of life in a different time, and visions of people behaving more passionately and impulsively than what I was used to seeing around me.

Reluctantly, I started piano lessons when I was 8. I didn't like my teacher at all and quit a year later when she told me to: "Please try and play quieter" for the 20th time. That could well have been the end of my interest in music, had it not been for three incredible experiences which would push me even further.

When I was 10, my father brought two albums home that instantly changed my life. Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band by The Beatles, and We're Only In It for the Money by Frank Zappa & The Mothers Of Invention.

After listening to both twice through headphones, my imagination was triggered. I thought I was in the presence of a new level of human achievement. I knew I needed to figure out what was going on inside these records.

The next event was when a young medical research student from the University of Washington, called Patty, came to take care of my two sisters and I while our parents went on holiday to Mexico. As soon as my parents were in their car heading to the airport, Patty turned on her portable radio.

I heard incredible artists: Janis Joplin, Aretha Franklin, Cream, Jefferson Airplane, The Association and The Doors—to name a few. Because radio stations loved to play the same records over and over again, these songs started to feel like friends.

When my parents returned, I asked if I could take a "different kind" of music lessons, and they found me a teacher called David Arntzen, who had long hair, ate sunflower seeds and taught me to freely improvise on a Fender Rhodes electric piano.

I started writing songs when I was 17, but it took three years until I finally finished one without tearing it up in disgust immediately afterwards. After many failed sonic experiments and frustrations, I completed four soundscapes in a single day.

This marked the beginning of my ability as a recording engineer, songwriter and producer. I spent the next two decades in my own little world recording my songs using analog synthesizers —an Arp Odyssey and Minimoog—electric guitar, heavy distortion and processing my voice to sound as "other worldly" as possible.

As fate would have it, my town, Seattle, went from being a city known for salmon fishing and Boeing aircraft, to an international mecca for rock musicians thanks to "the grunge movement", spearheaded by artists like Mudhoney, Tad, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam and Alice In Chains.

I joined a seven-piece tribal space rock band called Sky Cries Mary and we enjoyed huge success making records and touring in the United States, Canada and even in Japan.

I feel Sky Cries Mary had a very different sound than other groups from our town. We had a DJ in the band, male and female lead vocalists and an old school, 1960s multi-projector light show. Thanks to Seattle tech companies, we were one of the first bands to perform live on the internet, which we heard really enraged The Rolling Stones as they were planning to do the same thing a few weeks later.

At the same time, I was recording with artists including with Green River, an American rock band featuring musicians who would later join Pearl Jam and Mudhoney. I was also working with Reggie Watts' great band, Maktub, Bundle of Hiss and Feast. Those grunge years were a non-stop party!

As quickly as it appeared, our Seattle scene fell apart by 1996, so my new band partner Anne Hadlock and I moved to Manhattan. She found us a cool studio near Chinatown called Chateau Relaxo. It was here I learned how to use high quality recording equipment and my production game jumped up considerably.

A year later, just when I had got into the flow of being a producer, we got evicted and I had to quickly find somewhere to record loud music. We built a brand new studio, Transporterraum NYC, in a formerly dusty old basement on Second Street and Avenue A in the East Village.

This became a beautiful creative lair with red and purple glitter walls, dim lighting and lots of great old instruments. Within the first year that Transporterraum NYC was open, I met The Strokes at Luna Lounge on Ludlow Street.

I went there very frequently to see live music and one night was invited out by a new event promoter named Kerri Black. The Strokes were incredibly young, yet had great style and confidence. To me, it felt like they had been performing for their entire lives.

After their set I walked over, said hello and handed one of them a blue business card. Two days later, Albert Hammond Jr. came over to visit the studio. He recently told me that he actually ran home, which was about a mile away, to tell Julian Casablancas that our place would be cool for them to record in.

From day one, the band had a strong vision for what they wanted. We decided to make something very different to what was widely happening in the New York scene in 2000. We focused on a raw live sound that was incredibly tightly performed straight away and I offered a few variations of an overdriven, saturated vocal sound.

As nonchalant and effortlessly cool as many people think The Strokes were on record, I can tell you that they were beyond serious in their efforts to stay focused and create something extremely powerful.

I flew to London to see The Strokes show at a nightclub called Heaven, upon the release of their single Hard To Explain/New York City Cops. It was their biggest show to date, and at the afterparty I met The Libertines.

Their manager, Banny, introduced me to Peter Doherty who was dressed in a fabulous suit, wearing his trilby. He grabbed me by the hand and in the middle of the floor dropped to one knee, rolled his hat down his sleeve, caught it, then proceeded to sing me a song looking directly into my eyes. Indeed, a mighty first impression.

After The Strokes album Is This It was released in 2001, I moved to London to pursue working with The Libertines. I became their live sound engineer on their very first U.K. tour. This was a constant party, high madness, and a fantastic way for me to be introduced to British life.

On my Christmas vacation back to New York I was introduced to Regina Spektor, and upon hearing her play one song, Poor Little Rich Boy, I knew I needed to record her music next.

Regina was very striking in her bohemian self-constructed outfits, and completely floored me with her piano abilities, songwriting, singing and—most importantly—her words. The album Soviet Kitsch, which we worked on together, is one of my favorite musical experiences in a studio ever.

There are two distinct aspects of success in the world of music. Firstly, there is the elation an artist experiences when they finish a piece of music that they are entirely proud of. This is more difficult than you may imagine.

The other success is when a piece of music resonates with a large group of people, as if it has touched a collective nerve. I often talk about the zeitgeist of a certain period, and how certain things appear at just the right time to be taken deeply to heart by masses of people.

I know there's a modicum of success to be achieved through copying what's already happening, but for me those are not the artists that really inspire. Jimi Hendrix, electronic pioneer Wendy Carlos, Regina Spektor, The Strokes, Lil Peep and Ab-Soul are perfect examples of outrageous and original creators across several generations who really do inspire me. I believe there's still infinite room for originality, new ideas and new techniques. In fact, the proof is in all the great music that is currently coming out from every area in the world.

If I could give one piece of advice to those that wish to be an artist or musician, I would say: be very honest with yourself and don't spend time with people or projects that don't build up your energy or enthusiasm. Similarly, respect your own ideas enough to try them first, before allowing someone to make suggestions which could steer you away from your original, passionate intentions.

Gordon Raphael is a celebrated music producer who has worked with The Strokes, Regina Spektor and The Libertines. Gordon has detailed his story-packed career in new memoir The World Is Going To Love This. You can follow Gordon on Instagram.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.