Air Mover

For Jeff

I met Jeff Taylor in 2009 while he was Technical Director at Irving Bible Church. I was a sophomore in high school, struggling with depression but finding solace in music. I knew of Jeff’s band Air Review, and was quite familiar their album Landmarks. If mp3’s had grooves, I’d have worn that record out within weeks. I was obsessed.

When I learned Landmarks had been recorded in a studio at Irving Bible Church, I was shocked: both that this relatively modest (by Texas megachurch standards) Protestant house of worship had a recording studio, and that a good album could have been recorded in such a place.

Around the same time, I was singing in a band called Seastroke, a high-school pop-rock quartet featuring an electric violin. We’d played one show at a Mexican food joint called Amigo’s in nearby Richardson, Texas, and—given how poorly that performance had gone—judiciously resolved to refocus our efforts on the recording side of our craft.

I borrowed my little brother’s USB microphone from the Rock Band video game, and we got to work recording demos and posting them to MySpace. We sent the demos to a few notable producers in the DFW area, hoping to record a proper EP, but we heard nothing in response.

Eventually, we connected with Jeff Taylor, and that stroke of luck has shaped the rest of my life.

Jeff agreed to work with us and gave us a tour of the IBC recording studio. I was star-struck, of course, both at his presence and the room itself. The silence was palpable. The air felt chilled, slow, and spacious, ready to receive any sonic offerings one was prepared to give.

It was the holiest place in the church, and Jeff Taylor was its steward.

Jeff showed us the grand piano, the drum kit, the microphones, the vocal booth, the control room. He pointed out the gear that was on- or off-limits for our purposes, and we talked dates and money. He quoted us $45/hour to work with him. That is a bargain-basement, laughably low price for a top-notch studio and an elite producer. We put our pennies together and scheduled a few sessions with him.

I’m 30 now, the age that Jeff was when we began working together. The older I get, the less I can fathom the patience and kindness that Jeff showed us. He had no obligation to record four teenage ruffians. But patience, kindness, and love of music were fundamental to his being.

The next few weeks turned my life around.

Jeff sent us rough mixes of the recordings we’d done. Any time I opened an email from him, I would giddily open the attached mp3 and listen. Inevitably, feelings of elation would wash over me: a song we’d written had become immortalized in its most beautiful form. I listened to these songs over and over again—mostly for pleasure, but also trying to find ways Jeff might improve the mixes. Of course, I found none.

Jeff taught me ProTools. He taught me how to record drums. He introduced me to the Shure SM7B (a mic I’ve used exclusively for 15 years now) and explained what it sounds best on. He cautioned me never to use phantom power with a ribbon microphone. How to ride a fader. How to wind cables. How to follow through on commitments. EQ. Attack. Decay. Sustain. Compress. Automate. Mix. Master. Release.

Jeff showed me the magic of recorded music, and gave my 16-year-old self hope. He helped hone my solace into an art and gave me a greater purpose than what I was capable of contriving before I met him.

Soon after Seastroke’s album was released, I started working in a technical support role at IBC that winter under Jeff’s leadership. He was my first boss. At that job, I saw different facets of the same personality I’d come to know throughout the recording process with Seastroke: patience, diligence, kindness, and a wise perfectionism that he managed to use when the occasion called for it—and abandon in situations where it didn’t serve a purpose.

Eventually Jeff brought me onboard as a roadie for Air Review (another generosity in which my benefit far outweighed my contribution). I ran projection for them, and helped lug a needlessly large Yamaha CP80 to and from shows. Just as firmly as Jeff would plead with bouncers to let a teenager inside, he would prevent anyone from pouring me alcohol, citing his responsibility to my parents to keep me safe.

Following Jeff’s lead, the men of Air Review continued to inspire me, mold me, encourage me. They showed me the good, bad, and ugly of music, and their example further enkindled my love for it.

After I left Dallas for college in the Hudson Valley, Jeff and I mainly stayed in touch over email. I’d occasionally send him demos, and—as usual—Jeff would praise when praise was warranted, and gingerly offer the most delicate suggestions when he thought that—perhaps, maybe, possibly—the song wanted something else. I’ll never forget sending him a demo with some sort of atrocious MIDI flute solo in the middle. “Cool track!” he said. “I’m thinking that part in the middle might sound better in a different song. If it worked, I would think, ‘cool,’ but I’m not necessarily feeling it here.”

I missed the release show of Air Review’s final record How We Got By in 2019 because I’d gotten too wasted the night before and missed my flight to Dallas. One of Jeff’s last texts to me was a congratulations on my sober anniversary.

I regret missing the release show. I regret not calling or texting him more. But to have known him at all is to regret these things.

I love and miss him dearly.

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Jeff Taylor sits at the desk, leaning back slightly in his chair. His arms extend in front of him, elbows out. His right palm is resting on the ergonomic padding of a Kensington Expert Mouse, which has a huge ball in the middle. Jeff’s index finger spins this ball back and forth, and the cursor on the two screens in front of him follows. His right thumb clicks a button every few moments. With his left thumb, he depresses the spacebar of a computer keyboard, and music begins to play.

Maybe we hear the makings of an audiobook, a narrator’s voice cleanly projected from the huge black-and-gold Adam Audio speakers on Jeff’s left and right. Perhaps we hear the makings of an Advent album by the Irving Bible Church band. Maybe it’s Sput Searight playing drums. If we’re lucky, he’s showing us a new Air Review song.

At its most basic level, sound is the movement of air back and forth. We hear sound because this moving air moves our eardrums, which send a signal to our brain. A speaker is just a thing that moves air. The tweeters and woofers receive electricity at varying frequencies, then “tweet” and “woof” the air in front of them accordingly.

When Jeff sits at a desk, he is the air mover. His clicks, spins, and scrolls are performed with no less expertise than that of a master violinist. He commands the speakers’ vibrations like a conductor. He hears, he changes the way the air moves, and he listens. Unlike a virtuosic performer whose play might become rote, Jeff is always excited by the process. He is the mover and the moved. He turns to us periodically, points at a speaker, and smiles with wide eyes. “Dude…” he says. Our ears perk up.

Maybe we hear what Jeff hears. Maybe he’s made a change so small and seemingly insignificant that no one will ever notice the improvement but him. But the air around us moves more beautifully, whether we’re conscious of it or not.