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Time stopped in the studio
In the studio the band played the song a few times, and it wasn't great. Producer Rick Rubin doesn't even remember whether anyone suggested a change. It could be that nothing changed at all, and someone just asked for another try.
Then, on one take, it was like time stopped and something incredible happened. Nobody involved knew why or how. About a minute into the song, Rubin felt a scary feeling that came from how good it was. He hoped the band could get to the end, because without the end they wouldn't have the take, and they might never get back to that place.
Moments like this come up all the time in the studio. Sometimes the shift is obvious while it's happening, and sometimes it only shows up afterward.
Why does time seem to stop during peak performance?
The psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi called this state flow in his 1990 book Flow. People describe total absorption in a task, a loss of self-consciousness, and a changed sense of time. It tends to appear when the challenge matches the person's skill and the goal is clear. Musicians, athletes, and surgeons have all described it in his interviews.
Why does a great take need to reach the end?
A recorded performance carries a feeling that builds from the first bar, and joining pieces of different takes can break that continuity. In the tape era, editors spliced sections together with a razor blade, which worked only if tempo and energy matched at the join. Digital editing makes cuts easier, but a listener can still hear a change in mood across a seam. A single complete take keeps the arc of the performance intact.
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