"My goal is to ... have the facilities that [musicians and producers] would have if they were going to L.A. or New York," Espinoza explains as he shows us around Soundworks. "So if you look at the gear setup and everything, it's all the usual suspects, it's all the stuff that people are used to making records with, plus a few more extras."
Make that a lot more extras. Today, any schmo with a couple grand can buy the gear to record an album. Espinoza is that schmo, except that he had a couple million to spend on Soundworks. The results of four years of designing, building, and wiring are on display in the sleek half-dozen rooms that make up the downstairs, with its two control rooms, Studio A and Studio B. The latter is a small, state-of-the-art mixing and overdubbing room; the former a super-size tracking room. With its enormous mixing console -- a custom-built Solid State Logic 9072 J Series, the only one of its kind in San Francisco -- and vast array of colored modules and machines, Studio A looks like the bridge of the Star Trek Enterprise.
"There's 1,500 lines that run through all this stuff, through the floors, up into this patch bay panel," Espinoza explains. "You've got equipment that's just released in the last few months, all the way back to 1953. You've got old '50s compressors, '60s stuff, '70s console stuff from Neve. And you might use any number of these things just to get one sound."
Then there's the upstairs.
Above the control rooms are two giant, cathedral-esque lofts, one of which is where Espinoza lives. The other has the charm of your parents' bonus room -- except that it's three stories high and comes equipped with an expensive Pro Tools recording system, a gourmet kitchen, two fancy bedrooms, hardwood floors, skylights, a bathroom with heated towel racks and side-by-side showers, and a balcony (with wet bar) offering a compelling panoramic view of SOMA. If you were a rapper and bling-bling was your thing, you could shoot a video here and it would impress your peeps. But if you were an indie rocker shopping for an inspiring place to record, Soundworks might make you want to vomit. Which raises the question: What kind of self-respecting music community would rally around a former AOL VP?
With luck, it'll be ours.
Tony Espinoza is a visionary, and like most visionaries, he walks a fine line between idealism and lunacy. As he and we all know, the record industry is in its worst slump ever. Bands aren't recording albums like they used to, and when they do, they mainly do so on a tight budget, in New York or Los Angeles. Most recording professionals in this city believe the salad days of the San Francisco studio scene have come to an end -- and they aren't coming back.
Espinoza disagrees, and he's put his money -- nearly all of it, he claims -- where his mouth is with Soundworks. His plan is twofold: to attract big-budget projects to his big-budget space, and to use the revenues he collects from those deep pockets to subsidize the cost of recording no-budget albums by promising local bands.
Some think his noble effort is too little, too late.
"I don't think it's necessarily the case of, 'If you build it they will come,'" says Glynn Durham, who co-owns a low-budget studio called Closer Recordings located down the street from Soundworks. Closer is a modest facility compared to its neighbor, but like its sister studio across town, Tiny Telephone, it stays open because, unlike Espinoza, its owners have a history in the local music scene. "If I was a dot-com millionaire," Durham continues, "and I had 2 million bucks to drop and I got together with all my buddies and we spent 2 million on all the best shit and we were here in San Francisco, I don't think that people would just rush in the door."
It's easy to be skeptical of Espinoza. For one thing, he's rich. And not I-wrote-the-theme-song-to-Friends rich, but I-had-the-key-to-the-executive-washroom-for-one-of-the-largest-media-conglomerates-in-the-solar-system rich. Then there are the bling-bling lofts, the too-slick rhetoric, the fact that, as a computer executive for the past 15 years, Espinoza has little in the way of street cred. But the more I hang out with him, the more such suspicions melt away.
"Every time I meet a new person," he explains, "every time I bring someone into the studio, I know they're wondering, 'How did this happen?' [Former KCRW DJ] Chris Douridas asked me, 'Did you win the lottery?' I'm not offended by those questions at all, as long as I know that people are open-minded enough to get to know me apart from the money."
Like a lot of dot-commers, Espinoza is the whiz kid who grew up too fast, so he's smart, tireless, and eloquent, but also wildly optimistic and perhaps a little naive. This combination of qualities is precisely why Espinoza's vision can -- and should -- work: He can think and talk and manage like a programmer, but as a music producer he can just as easily massage creative ideas out of an aloof bunch of players, as if he'd been in bands all his life. Espinoza is the epitome of art and commerce working together. And as anyone familiar with the music business knows, it's the disproportion of these two ideas -- indie culture is too fixated on the former, major-label culture focuses on nothing but the latter -- that has led to the current state of things. Perhaps the best solution is for the two to shake hands, make up, and focus on the future. And if that's the case, Tony Espinoza may be one of the best allies our local scene has.