The Neville Brothers at Emlah Court

The recording engineer, supervised by a producer, operates the recording console and other equipment. The engineer also sets up the studio and recording equipment. I started as a recording engineer and worked my way up to the producer's chair.

In 1988 I was asked to work on an album with the Neville Brothers. Before leaving Canada for New Orleans, I was asked to bring a couple of microphones with me. I picked up a Neumann U47 and a Sony C-37A, both vintage tube mics. Customs at the U.S. border hassled me about why I was carrying them, and I said I was a big fan of jazz music and was taking them so I could record at a jazz festival. They let me go: I passed my first importing test.

Once I arrived in New Orleans, I met Dan — Daniel Lanois — the producer, in the enormous apartment he had rented in the French Quarter, at 626 Royal Street.

"I got you a nice place to stay over on St. Ann Street," he told me, adding that he was only staying a couple more days and that once he left, I would move over to his place. He gave me the address of my accommodations on St. Ann and asked me to meet him back at his apartment in the morning.

Walking through the French Quarter, passing Bourbon Street, the swarms of drunken people and even a brass band made the experience a bit surreal. I grew up in a steel city that was a tough place full of blue-collar workers, and I'd never met anyone openly gay in my life. Suddenly, I found myself in the midst of men in assless chaps, and large hairy guys kissing young white boys in their underwear.

Still reeling from the antics of the French Quarter, once inside the house on St. Ann, I rang the bell and was greeted by a nice, old British man named John; he and his friendly wife were a welcome sight. He showed me my beautiful guesthouse, where I spent my first night alone in a strange city full of the most bizarre people I'd ever met, wondering what I'd just fallen into.

The next day Royal Street was blocked off and full of street musicians and tarot card readers. Dan and I went out for breakfast to a cool English place called The Cheshire Cat. He told me that he was leaving the next day for England to work with Brian Eno in a place called Woodbridge, a beautiful market town in the county of Suffolk. He informed me that I was responsible for finding a place to make the Neville Brothers' record, and that I'd need to buy and import all the gear from Canada, England, and New York. I'd have to set up the studio, buy a car, and furnish the place so we could sleep there. I also had to open a bank account. I basically had to be a real-estate agent, an international gear importer, and an accountant — all in an age with no cell phones or computers. To top it off, I looked really young for my age, more like a fifteen-year-old than a twenty-two-year-old; I still didn't even need to shave.

I met with Lucy Burnett, a New Orleans socialite with old money from a southern family — a real southern belle. She had the corner balcony apartment at Royal and St. Philip Streets, the best location for Mardi Gras parties. She was likely in her forties at the time and loved any reason to throw a party.

I explained my situation and she said, "I have just the guy for you, a real-estate guy who knows all the best properties."

First, I had to find a car so I could start looking for locations, and I bought a black 1965 Cadillac Calais — a huge boat in amazing shape, with low miles, electric windows, and white-wall tires. It could fit four people on the front bench seat and was the perfect people mover.

Dan had given me a ridiculous budget of only $1,200 per month to find a place to make the record. I met with the agent uptown at the Columns Hotel. The first location he showed me was an old children's asylum, and frankly, it was scary. It still had old beds and cribs in which the children used to sleep, and the vibe made it feel as though the kids had been prisoners.

He then showed me an old Mardi Gras float hanger. In one of the buildings I opened a janitor's closet, and through the darkness I could see a sink that was moving. I flicked on the light and discovered the sink was overflowing with huge cockroaches that immediately flew at me.

After not having much luck finding a place, I remembered a building beside the Columns Hotel, on St. Charles Avenue, that was for sale. I asked the agent if we could see the building, and he arranged an appointment. It was a five-story place called Emlah Court. A Louisianan oil baron had built it for his five daughters, each one getting a floor, and he'd used the first letter of each of their names to create the name Emlah. The entrance was two large glass doors framed with wrought iron, and inside was a cage elevator with mirrors on the walls. Each floor had a single huge apartment — each with three large bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a huge living area and separate dining room — and all the rooms had fifteen-foot ceilings and beautiful French windows from floor to ceiling. The place was perfect for making the record.

One of the most important things to think about when choosing a place to record is something called "magnetic field." If a person has a single coil pickup in their guitar running through a tube amp, it causes a problematic hum. Often, a quiet spot can be found by facing the guitar in a different direction, but if there is a big power transformer outside the building or somewhere close by, you might not get a clean signal. I had developed a test for this and carried a Lawrence pickup for an acoustic guitar and a little Peavey battery powered amp. I trolled the pickup along the floors to see if there was any noise. Occasionally, fluorescent light fixtures would cause a huge noise even though they were on the ceiling below.

An old man owned Emlah Court. He had bought it cheap and thought he could flip it for a high...