Why Great Producers Don’t Break Artists - Barb Morrison on Trust, Vibe & Making Music That Lasts

In this episode of Artists Unveiled, we sit down with Barb Morrison to talk about what actually happens inside a studio, beyond the gear, beyond the credits, beyond the finished song.

Barb has spent decades working as a producer, songwriter, and mentor, collaborating with artists across genres and generations. But what stands out most in this conversation isn’t her résumé,  it’s her approach. Barb believes that the studio is a vulnerable space, and that how an artist is treated in that room can shape not just a song, but their confidence, trust, and creative future.

We talk about the difference between technical skill and emotional intelligence in production, why some artists leave sessions inspired while others leave scarred, and how hearing truth in music requires more than just trained ears. Barb shares how her early years recording on cassette and four-track machines trained her to hear potential where others hear flaws, and why mentorship, patience, and real experience still matter in an age of shortcuts.

This episode also explores the business side of creativity, how careers are built slowly, why doing the work for love comes before money, and how producers can create environments where artists feel safe enough to take risks. At its core, this is a conversation about responsibility: what it means to guide, support, and collaborate without ego.

If you care about music as a living process, not just a product, this episode offers an honest look at what makes creative work meaningful, sustainable, and human.

🎧 Listen to Artists Unveiled: “Why Great Producers Don’t Break Artists - Barb Morrison on Trust, Vibe & Making Music That Lasts”
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Transcript

Barb: You know, I hear these stories about even famous producers, people will say, “Oh, I was in the studio with this famous producer and they made me cry.” I’ve heard it more times than I can count. And I won’t name names, but I’ve heard of producers who’ve made people cry, and I always think, that is not what I want to leave as my legacy.

Fifteen years from now, when we listen to the song we recorded today, I want us to look back and say, “We had such a great day in the studio. We laughed. We ordered great food. I sang great.” That’s what I want artists to remember. I don’t want anyone to say, “That was the day Barb made me cry.” That’s just not cool.

Holiday: Hello and welcome to Artists Unveiled, a show where we bring on exceptional creators not just to tell their story, but to give you real insight into how they went from striving to thriving. My name is Holiday, and today I’m excited to introduce a truly dynamic artist, an American recording artist, top five Billboard dance chart songwriter, platinum record producer, film scorer, author, and creative mentor.

Let’s hear from Barb Morrison. Barb, when you look back, when would you say you really started to think of yourself as a producer?

Barb: Wow. That goes way back. I think I started off because I have two older brothers, and both of them were audio geeks in different ways. One was really into car stereos — like really into them. He actually made it into the Guinness Book of World Records once for having the loudest car stereo. My family tends to do everything all the way.

My other brother was a DJ, so I ended up getting all their hand-me-down equipment. When I was probably around thirteen, I had a DJ mixer and two cassette decks. And when you have two cassette decks running into each other, you can kind of fake overdubs.

So I started really young. I remember thinking, “Oh wow, you can stack sounds.” For a second, I genuinely thought I invented it, at least in my world. But everything was on cassette, so the final product always sounded very… cassette-ish. But it still felt magical.

Then I moved up to what was called a four-track in the ’80s. Once I got that little machine, I could really start doing it. I was completely fascinated, stacking vocals, layering guitars, creating depth. I couldn’t wait to get home from school every day just to sit down and make something.

Once I realized how music was made, I started hearing music differently. So really, I guess I was a producer from a very young age, just with new ears.

Holiday: Where did instruments come into the picture for you?

Barb: I started piano when I was seven. And when they passed that piece of paper around in school asking what instrument we wanted to play in the band, I wrote down piano. Then I saw this massive instrument in the marching band, I didn’t even know what it was called, but I wrote down tuba. The biggest thing I could find.

The school called my parents and said, “Barb wrote down tuba, but it weighs twice as much as she does.” So I had to switch, and thank God I ended up choosing saxophone. Because when I moved to New York as a teenager, there weren’t a lot of punk rock tuba gigs.

So saxophone really saved me. But when I was producing early on, it was guitars, horns, drums, I had a drum set in my room. I was playing in bands by fourteen. It was all punk rock. But the saxophone ended up opening a lot of doors.

Holiday: And that saxophone helped you land one of your first major gigs, right?

Barb: Yeah. When I moved to New York at seventeen, saxophone was kind of a rare thing, so everyone wanted you in their band. I joined a lot of bands, and eventually I got into one that got signed, which was huge.

We had four record deals, three with the band and one on my own. It was the ’80s. They were handing out record deals like candy. It was honestly an incredible time to be making music in New York.

Holiday: Did you ever imagine you’d become a platinum record producer? 

Barb: Honestly, I think everyone who makes art thinks big, even if they don’t say it out loud. You don’t go into it thinking, “I’m going to make something that kind of sucks.” There’s always a dream, Grammys, big stages, impact.

Funny thing is, I didn’t even know I had a gold record until two years later. Someone casually mentioned it to me. It was for Blondie. And I was like, “Wait what?” I didn’t even have a plaque. Debbie Harry had so many that she didn’t think twice. She actually ordered my first gold record for me. That moment changed things. It does open doors. I won’t pretend it doesn’t. It feels good. It really does.

Holiday: You mentioned something earlier that really stayed with me, the idea of hearing. A producer hears differently than an audience, differently than a songwriter, differently than an engineer. There are trends, there’s intention, there’s instinct. How do you understand hearing in your work?

Barb: That’s a great question. I think it comes from where I started. I came from the cassette days. Back then, everybody’s early ideas sounded terrible. Truly terrible. Because we didn’t have technology. Rough ideas were rough.

Now, I work with people who walk into the studio with almost fully formed songs because of Logic or Pro Tools or whatever they’re using. But back then, you had to hear the diamond inside the rubble. You really had to listen differently.

I remember playing cassettes for people, civilians, non-musicians, maybe a girlfriend or a friend. Someone would send me a demo and I’d say, “I’m thinking of producing this person.” And the person listening would be like, “Are you kidding? This sucks.”

And I’d be like, “No there’s something in there.” Not everyone hears that way. They’re not listening for potential. But my ears were trained early because things were so raw.

So now, someone can sing an idea into their phone, send it to me, and I can hear the whole song. I’ve built entire tracks from voice memos. And honestly, that’s one of my favorite parts of the process, the birth of the thing.

Holiday: What would you say to someone who says, “I’m a good musician, I know Logic, I want to be a professional producer”?

Barb: I mentor people now, that came out of the pandemic. I do one-on-one sessions on Zoom, and I actually love it. I get to watch people become themselves.

Just last week, I worked with someone I’ve mentored for a while. They’ve become an excellent producer. And even while I was producing them, I could see them watching me, taking notes, the same way I did when I was younger working with big producers.

That’s what I’d say: find a mentor. Me, or someone you respect. Watch how they move. Get in the room with them. Observe.

And you really do have to put in the time. I believe in the 10,000 hours thing. I see people online saying, “Become a producer in 30 days.” Good luck.

I’m in my third decade of producing and I’m still learning. I work with Bart Schadel in LA, one of the best vocal producers in the world, and I’ve learned so much from him in just the last few years.

So you have to get your hands dirty. You have to live it.

Holiday: You and Bart work together under a name, right?

Barb: Yeah, we’re called Audible Yays.

Holiday: Where did that come from?

Barb: I don’t even fully remember, but I think we were in a session with an artist and someone said, “I’m feeling an audible yay about this.” And we were like, that’s it.

Bart brings this super polished pop sensibility, and I bring more edge,  punk rock roots, darker textures. It’s a really good balance.

Holiday: At what point does creativity meet commerce? How did producing become something you could actually live off of?

Barb: I always tell people, you should never start art to make money. You do it because you love it. I did it because I loved it, and I got good at it because I loved it.

When I tried to turn it into a career, I started producing half the East Village for lunch money. Late ’90s, early 2000s, tons of bands, tons of experimentation.

We were guinea pigs for each other. That’s how you learn. I was part of a production duo called Super Buddha. We worked out of my partner’s living room, before recording in a living room was cool. Some of those records still hold up. Some don’t. But it was trial and error.

I tell my mentees: start cheap. Start free. Do it because you love it. Get better. Then raise your prices. You can’t raise prices unless you’re actually improving.

Holiday: You mentioned your book earlier. I’d love to talk about that. You wrote a book called Bottoming for God. How did that come about?

Barb: Yeah. I wrote a book. The audiobook actually just came out last week, and I narrated it myself. Jeremy Kinney recorded it. He’s one of my engineers, and honestly, I wouldn’t have finished it without him. He pushed me. He kept saying, “Nobody can narrate this but you.” So we drank a lot of Red Bull and got it done.

I had written about four chapters maybe ten years ago. I wrote them to impress a girl,  and it worked, but then they just sat there collecting dust.

During the pandemic, we were all forced to sit with ourselves. Trapped inside, hugging cats, wondering what day it was. Time didn’t exist anymore. Somewhere in that moment, I realized,  the hardest part was already done. I had the first chapters. What was my excuse now?

But the truth is, the book couldn’t have been written until then. Some life still hadn’t been lived yet. Some of the puzzle pieces weren’t in place.

Holiday: That idea of timing, that something can’t be created until the life behind it has been lived,  feels central to the book.

Barb: That’s exactly what Bottoming for God is about. It’s about asking: how do we let the universe love us? Sometimes that love looks like comfort. Sometimes it looks like getting your ass kicked.

And you don’t always know which one it is until later. You look back and realize, oh, that wasn’t a punishment. That was the move that had to happen.

That’s why the book couldn’t exist earlier. The meaning wasn’t visible yet.

Holiday: You also chose to publish independently, right?

Barb: Completely independently. I didn’t even shop it to publishers. I wasn’t interested. Same way I feel about record labels.

I did a reading in LA with Patty Schemel from Hole, and I asked the bookstore staff, “Do you know any writers who actually like their publishers?” And they laughed and said no.

So I knew I made the right call. I had a goal of selling 1,000 copies in the first year. I sold the thousandth copy in month ten and stopped counting. It was twenty dollars a book. Do the math. And I kept all of it. That money went straight into touring. I don’t know many artists who see that kind of return.

Holiday: That DIY mindset feels deeply connected to your roots.

Barb: Absolutely. Punk rock. Hip-hop mixtapes out of car trunks. Watching artists build without permission. There is a way to do this yourself. You don’t have to bow to corporate rules. You just have to be willing to do the work.

Holiday: You’re also heading to Europe soon.

Barb: Yeah. We’re moving to Valencia. Bart’s going to be there too, so we’re setting up a room together. I’ll be bouncing back and forth, I’m working at Abbey Road in October. That still blows my mind. That’s where Dark Side of the Moon was recorded.

And the best part? In Europe, it’s a $59 flight to anywhere. My wife jokes we could wake up and say, “Remember that pizza place in Rome?” and just go.

It costs more to get from my house in New Jersey to Newark Airport than it does to fly from Valencia to Rome.

Holiday: That band your saxophone helped you get into early on, what was it called?

Barb: It was a band called Gutterboy. The lead singer was Ditto Montiel. He went on to become a pretty well-known film director. He just did a movie with Bill Murray and Jennifer Coolidge called Riff Raff. Super talented guy.

This was pre-internet. Mid-80s. There’s barely anything online about it now. I joined the band mid-career, they already had momentum. But for a New York band coming up at that time, we were huge.

We were in Details magazine, Interview magazine. We sold out CBGBs. We toured. We had buses. We were shot by Bruce Weber. Allen Ginsberg photographed us. It was wild.

We were rough, punk, came out of CBGB matinees. Then we got signed and the labels wanted to polish us up too much. Geffen made us too slick. Later on Mercury, we found a better balance,  pop, but still gritty.

That taught me something important: you don’t have to smooth everything out to sell records. Identity matters.

Holiday: Do you think that sense of camaraderie, doing it with your people, is something you can engineer? Or does it just happen?

Barb: People can smell bullshit. Instantly.

If you’re doing something for the wrong reasons, people feel it. And when a song hits you in the chest, you know it came from truth.

Think about Jeff Buckley. Joni Mitchell. Bowie. You hear a line and think, That’s the thing I was feeling but didn’t know how to say.

That’s truth. And audiences know the difference between that and something manufactured.

When I mentor people, the first thing I do is try to get them to say what they’re actually trying to say, not the perfect version, not the polished version. Rip it open. That’s where real art lives.

Holiday: How do you choose the artists you work with?

Barb: First thing, comfort. Way before technical skill.

An artist needs to feel safe in the room. Safe enough to show you their worst ideas. Their half-formed thoughts. Their journal.

That’s the real job of a producer. Service.

I’ve seen producers with $40,000 speakers on cinder blocks. Technically perfect rooms. Zero vibe. Artists don’t care about that. They care about how the room feels.

Producing is mostly vibe. I’d say 90% vibe, 5% technical skill, 5% chaos, and maybe another 5% magic.

Holiday: You’ve talked before about not wanting to be remembered as someone who hurt artists.

Barb: Yeah. I hear these stories, famous producers making artists cry. I’ve heard names. Big names.

That is not what I want my legacy to be.

Fifteen years from now, when we hear the song we made today, I want artists to say, “That was such a good day. We laughed. We ordered great food. I sang great.”

Not, “That was the day Barb destroyed me.”

Artists come in vulnerable. They’re literally handing you their heart. You have to be trustworthy.

It’s part therapist. Part doula. You’re helping birth something.

Holiday: That responsibility feels heavy.

Barb: It is. And that’s why I don’t engineer anymore if I can help it. If I’m staring at the back of my laptop, I’m not present with the artist.

I want to face them. Pull the truth out.

That’s why engineers matter so much. A producer is only as good as their engineer. They need to be fast, calm, invisible when things go wrong.

Jeremy will be fixing something mid-session and texting me like, “Talk for thirty seconds.” Nobody even knows anything happened. The vibe stays intact.

Holiday: You mentioned earlier that producing eventually has to meet commerce. How did that transition happen for you?

Barb: I did it first because I loved it. I really don’t think anyone should make art just to make money. You do it because you love it, and if you love it enough, you usually get good at it.

When I started trying to live off it, I produced basically half the East Village for lunch money. Late 90s, early 2000s. There were so many bands. We were all guinea pigs for each other.

I was in a production duo called Super Buddha. We worked out of my partner Charlie’s living room, before it was cool to record in living rooms. Before the Billie Eilish era.

We made some great records. Some terrible ones. Trial and error. I always tell people you start doing this for lunch money. Then you get better. Then you raise your rates. You can’t raise your prices unless you’re actually improving.

I have mentees right now offering to mix for free just to get better. That’s how you cut your teeth.

Holiday: So growth comes from repetition, not shortcuts.

Barb: Exactly. People see Instagram ads like “Become a producer in 30 days.” Good luck.

I’m in my third decade of producing and still learning. I work with Bart Schadel in LA, one of the best vocal producers alive. I’ve learned so much from him in just the last few years. The work never stops teaching you.

Holiday: You also wrote a book.

Barb: Yeah. It’s called Bottoming for God. The audiobook just came out — I narrated it myself. Jeremy pushed me hard to finish it.

I had written four chapters ten years ago to impress a girl. It worked. Then the chapters sat there.

During the pandemic, I finally finished it. And honestly, it couldn’t have been written earlier. Life hadn’t happened yet.

The book is about surrender. About letting the universe love you, sometimes gently, sometimes violently. And realizing later that what felt like destruction was actually alignment.

Holiday: That idea of surrender keeps coming up in your work.

Barb: Because at some point, you do your best,  and then you let go.

That’s bottoming for God. You stop fighting and say, Okay. I’m here. Do your thing.

I self-published the book. Didn’t even shop it to publishers. Sold over a thousand copies in under a year. Kept all the money. Put it back into touring.

Same philosophy as punk rock. Same as early hip-hop mixtapes sold out of car trunks. You don’t need permission.

Holiday: You’re also relocating to Europe.

Barb: We’re moving to Valencia. Bart will be there too. We’re setting up a room together.

I’ll be working at Abbey Road in October. Same room where Dark Side of the Moon was recorded. It’s surreal.

Europe makes movement easy. You can fly anywhere for $59. Cheaper than dinner in New York.

Leaving was emotional, but it’s right.

Holiday: Looking back, that early band life really shaped how you see collaboration.

Barb: Absolutely. Doing it with your friends matters.

That’s why Audible Yays works. That’s why my favorite sessions are the ones where people feel safe enough to be human.

If the room feels right, the music tells the truth.

Holiday: You’ve talked a lot about truth versus performance. How do you recognize when something is real?

Barb: People can smell bullshit. Truly. If you’re doing something for the wrong reasons, people feel it immediately.

When we hear a song that hits us in the chest, we know it came from truth. You hear a Jeff Buckley song, a Joni Mitchell song, a Bowie song, and you’re like, That’s the thing I’ve been trying to say and didn’t even know how.

I have nothing against professional song doctors or jingle writers. That’s a skill. But you can hear the difference between something constructed and something lived.

Truth sounds different.

Holiday: So how does someone find the artists they’re meant to work with?

Barb: The most important thing about being a good producer isn’t technical skill. It’s whether the artist feels safe with you.

Artists walk into rooms vulnerable. They’re basically saying, Here’s my heart. Here’s my journal. Please don’t crush it.

If they don’t trust you, nothing happens.

I’ve seen producers with $40,000 speakers on cinder blocks and no vibe. The tech doesn’t matter if the room feels wrong.

Vibe comes through the music.

Holiday: You’ve said producing is almost therapeutic.

Barb: It is. It’s part therapist.

You have to know when someone’s hungry, anxious, over-caffeinated, insecure. You’re managing emotions as much as sound.

I’ve heard stories about famous producers making artists cry. That’s not the legacy I want.

Fifteen years from now, I want artists to say, That was a great day. We laughed. We ate good food. I sang my ass off.

Not That was the day Barb broke me.

Holiday: That environment changes the work itself.

Barb: Completely. Producing is like 90% vibe, 5% technical, 5% chaos, and maybe another 5% magic.

And sometimes you just let the studio do its thing.

That’s the mystery.

Holiday: Do any sessions stand out where something unexpected happened?

Barb: Yes. One artist came in with nothing written. Nothing.

We were talking. I told her about a devastating breakup I’d just gone through. She stood up and said, I have the song.

She wrote it right there. Took my entire conversation, even details about my ex’s mom,  and turned it into a song.

We just watched it flow through her. It was humbling.

That’s when you realize your job is to get out of the way.

Holiday: You’ve mentioned working from tracks versus building from conversations.

Barb: I don’t lock myself into one method.

I once wrote a full song skateboarding through Brooklyn. Recorded it immediately. Thought it was a Kelly Clarkson–type song.

Weeks later, Debbie Harry heard it and loved it. Completely made it her own.

You can’t control where a song belongs. You stay open.

Holiday: Are there unreleased songs you wish people heard?

Barb: Yes. One called Nothing at All. Alt-country. Sung by Sonia Leigh. It’s beautiful. We just didn’t shop it enough.

That’s why it’s on my SoundCloud. Nothing’s ever really dead.

Holiday: You’ve talked about discipline a lot. How do you separate real preparation from just wasting time?

Barb: Preparation has to be disciplined, not performative.

If you’re preparing yourself properly, you don’t waste anyone else’s time. You show up on time. You know what you’re doing. You’re ready.

In my case, especially when I’m leading a project, that responsibility is heavy. If I’m late, everybody feels it. If I’m unfocused, everybody feels it.

So preparation becomes respect.

Holiday: That leadership responsibility changes the dynamic.

Barb: It does. Especially when you’ve been doing something for a long time.

You naturally become the tone-setter. Whether you want to or not. How you show up affects the room.

So I take that seriously. I care too much not to.

Holiday: What’s most important to remember when working with a group creatively?

Barb: That everyone works differently.

Some people need repetition. Some need silence. Some need visuals. Some need reassurance. Some need space.

You have to trust people to do their job the way they do it, and trust yourself to do yours.

And you have to actually know the people you’re working with. That trust doesn’t come from talent alone.

Holiday: How does someone keep opportunities flowing?

Barb: Don’t take anything for granted. Ever.

Don’t burn bridges. Don’t dismiss small roles. Don’t assume you’re above anything.

Actors practice less than dancers or musicians. That’s a mistake. Artists should practice their art daily.

Read. Write. Observe people. Make weird faces in the mirror. Try things. Stay available.

Talent gets you in the door. Work ethic keeps you in the building.

Holiday: You’ve described theater as a world inside a world.

Barb: It is. You walk into a theater and everything collaborates, sound, light, fabric, bodies, breath.

It’s communal. Film pays better, but theater gives you energy in real time.

You don’t see the audience. You feel them. That’s sacred.

Holiday: Why does that feel so different from everyday conversation?

Barb: Because theater is heightened life.

Kids do theater every day. “I’m an astronaut.” “You’re a dinosaur.” That’s theater.

Life is theater. The stage just frames it.

Holiday: What about the business side,  especially now?

Barb: Everyone is their own business now.

If your name is the brand, the brand has to show up clean, prepared, professional.

I learned business by doing. Touring. Splitting money. Selling merch. Renting vans. Making mistakes.

Money can be distracting. Passion has to come first, but you still need strategy.

Holiday: What about artists who are more reserved?

Barb: Be yourself.

Some people shine quietly. Some need representation. Some need time. I personally want to disappear after a show. But the job sometimes requires showing up afterward. That’s part of the work too.

Holiday: If someone realizes a role doesn’t fit, what then?

Barb: If it’s harming your mental health and you’re not contractually bound, step away. But commitment matters. People rely on you. Audiences don’t know your backstory. I lost my sister while performing Mandela. I still did the shows. It broke me open, and it also made me stronger.

Holiday: That’s an unimaginable balance.

Barb: It is. But it comes with the job. Not everyone can do this work. That’s the truth.

Holiday: How do you personally define progress?

Barb: Progress is repetition. It’s getting a little better every day. It’s noticing what didn’t work and not making the same mistake again. Sometimes there isn’t a finish line. Sometimes there are many finish lines and none of them are final.

You have to trust the process, rehearsal, writing, rewriting, sitting in the park, thinking, scrapping it, coming back.

Progress is staying in motion.

Holiday: You’ve talked a lot about process over product.

Barb: Because product lies. Process tells the truth. If you obsess over the outcome, you stop listening. You stop growing. You stop being curious. But if you stay inside the process, the work keeps teaching you.

Holiday: Is there such a thing as a role just not being right for someone?

Barb: Yes. Absolutely. Some roles are not for you. Some are not for you yet. Some never will be. Early in my career, I played roles I was too young for emotionally. I didn’t have the lived experience yet. I had to manufacture it.

Later on, you start choosing differently. You chase meaning, not just opportunity.

Holiday: What about money-driven work, commercials, branding, crossover spaces?

Barb: Values matter. Money matters too, let’s not pretend it doesn’t. But values matter more if you can afford that choice. Early on, you say yes to learn. Later, you say no to protect yourself.There’s no shame in either, as long as you’re honest about why.

Holiday: How do you know when you’ve truly captured a character?

Barb: You never fully do. If I ever feel “done,” I’m bored, and that’s dangerous. I aim for 90%. That leaves room to discover something new next time. Every performance should have risk.

Holiday: What would you say directly to aspiring artists watching this?

Barb: Be yourself.Push yourself.Don’t rush the timeline.No doesn’t mean never, it means not yet. Create your own work. Feed your curiosity. Learn history. Observe people. Talent opens doors. Discipline keeps you inside.

Holiday: That’s powerful.

Barb: Also, someone is always watching. Some kid out there is thinking, If they can do it, maybe I can too. That matters.

Holiday: Thank you so much for being here.

Barb: Thank you for creating a space that respects artists. This felt like home.

Holiday: That means everything.

Holiday: Thanks for listening to Artists Unveiled.

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