Brian Slattery Photo
Keyshon Harvin stood in front of the microphone in the isolation booth at Musical Intervention, laying down vocals. He was singing a melody, the words and music of which he had created, over a melancholy slow jam. Matt Scully, who was producing the track, gave Harvin a few quick instructions. “You’re going to hear a count of four,” Scully said to Harvin. Then Harvin could start singing.
“He’ll just lock in,” said Musical Intervention founder Adam Christoferson. “He’s a pro.”
Harvin’s recording session on Tuesday afternoon was one of a few that Musical Intervention was conducting that day, as it reopened its Temple Street doors to its participants and negotiated, with enthusiasm and care, how to make music and help people heal during the Covid-19 pandemic.
Opened in 2015, Musical Intervention started 2020 with a full docket of activities. Its ongoing work with Marrakech — a social services organization for children and adults — and other organizations meant that it engaged participants in making music both in its Temple Street studio and elsewhere, conducting songwriting workshops and recording sessions. Some participants were referred there; others just arrived through word of mouth. In addition, the organization was part of a new neuroscience project, headed by Philip Corlett, an associate professor at the Yale School of Medicine’s Department of Psychiatry and funded by the National Institutes of Health, aiming “to understand why listening to and making music helps mitigate distress in people with psychotic illnesses,” according to an official press release. That project, announced in 2019, was scheduled to begin this year and run for five years.
Christoferson.
Instead, in March, Musical Intervention’s group activities ground to a halt, and it closed the doors to its studio, with the government-mandated shutdown due to Covid-19. “At first it seemed like a joke,” Christoferson recalled; then “in a short time it got incredibly real. Now it’s a way of life.”
Its physical space closed, the organization continued to conduct songwriting workshops and record music with participants virtually. For Christoferson, this proved problematic. “A lot of the folks we work with don’t have a reliable internet connection,” he said. “Some of the participants were able to navigate recording online,” he added, and “we’ve been creating tons of songs.” But unequal access to the internet “a huge roadblock.”
A couple weeks ago the studio on Temple Street reopened, but not as it was before the shutdown. Pre-pandemic, Musical Intervention’s doors were open to anyone who wanted to walk in, at any time. But now, to keep the numbers down in the room, Musical Intervention staff have to schedule recording sessions with participants one at a time “to help them create their music,” Christoferson said. “A volunteer helps keep the surfaces clean.” The studio’s isolation booths to record vocals have UV light. “We make sure everything is sprayed and contained. Then the artist doesn’t have to sing with a mask on.”
“We were eager to open up again for one-on-one sessions, just to keep the ball rolling,” Christoferson continued. Demand for the studio has meant that Musical Intervention already has to schedule recording sessions a couple weeks in advance. “The energy that we once thrived on is now much more controlled,” Christoferson said. “But it has been working. Every session is booked.” He is grateful that Musical Intervention can continue to work with its participants, “judging by what people say when they come by — how bad they need to make music.”
Finding The Words
Before Harvin arrived at Musical Intervention, Christoferson, Scully, and fellow Musical Intervention musician Kevin O’Brien were putting final touches on the music that would become Harvin’s backup track. They had already put down a drum track and a synth part and were debating over the timing of a bass part O’Brien was recording. O’Brien wasn’t entirely happy with what he had played.
“Go back to Julliard!” he said, laughing at himself. “I want to do it again.”
“Again?” Scully said.
“That’s the life of a producer,” Christoferson said, as he sprayed a set of congas to disinfect them. O’Brien recorded a tighter bass part. Then Christoferson tried a conga part. He did the same with a djembe, then reconsidered. “Maybe,” he said. “Might be too distracting.”
Harvin arrived. Christoferson ran around the corner to buy more masks for the studio at CVS while O’Brien recorded a guitar part. Then Harvin entered the isolation booth to record his vocals.
“I’m working on my lyrics,” Harvin said.
“I love it, Keyshon,” Christoferson said. Harvin recorded a take, and another take. The lyrics started to flow.
“Do you want a guitar solo?” O’Brien asked Harvin.
“I don’t play guitar,” Harvin said.
“I can do it,” O’Brien said.
Harvin then recorded backing vocals. When he was done, Christoferson, Scully, and O’Brien gave him a round of applause.
“How’d that feel?” Christoferson asked.
“Felt great,” Harvin said.
“It sounded great,” Christoferson said.
Christoferson is looking forward to the day “when this thing passes over,” Musical Intervention can reinstate its open door policy. Before the pandemic, he said, “everyone could come through in their time of need. I miss that.” The spontaneous groups that emerged in the studio allowed participants to focus on “collaboration, learning from each other,” Christoferson said.
He also looks forward to the day bigger groups can return to the space. “Gatherings are so important,” he said, but right now, “imagining 30 people at an open mic strikes fear…. We’re just trying to hold on until they can come.” For Christoferson, Musical Intervention remained “a calling. I just have to see where it leads.”
