Time was, the term "producer" was pretty much anathema in the fickle world that is indie rock. Hell, the man cited as the genre’s quintessential producer, Steve Albini, preferred his credit to read "recorded by…". To say something was "produced," the reasoning went, was to imply that perhaps someone other than the artists was imposing his or her vision; or worse, that the purity of the music was being polished, nay compromised, possibly to appeal to a wider audience.

But times change. And those old days might’ve yielded some benefits besides exploring the outer limits of tape hiss.

"I never would have gotten started if people weren’t into shitty recordings five years ago," says local producer Brian McTear, "’cause that’s all I could make five years ago.… But I never really liked the whole lo-fi thing; especially when it’s for its own sake."

You could call McTear’s production work a lot of things, but "lo-fi" isn’t one of them; "prolific," on the other hand, is a more apt description. To wit, an incomplete list of local bands McTear has worked with: Lefty’s Deceiver, The Burning Brides, Swisher, Matt Pond PA, Eltro, Mazarin, She-Haw, The Trouble With Sweeney, The Echo Orbiter…

Contemplate the mind-boggling diversity of these bands — from the anthemic hard rock of The Brides to the soothing, string-laden melancholia of Matt Pond — and what stands as a constant in the albums McTear has produced for them is a warm, natural sound, neither glossed up nor intentionally mucked with, that lets each band’s personality shine. Albums he’s done with the shifting, driving Lefty’s and the bold cut-and-paste pop of Eltro display a facility for balancing rhythmically diverse elements: Nothing sounds overwhelming, and all the pieces fit together.

The control room at Miner Street/CycleSound Studio in Manayunk, which McTear co-owns with Gary Ferenchak and where he pretty much does all his work, looks as if it’d feel like home for most any musician. The mixing console and rack of electronics dominates the room. The weathered couch is perfect for listening to a playback. Nearby, a huge pile of music magazines rests on an end table. Vintage-looking keyboards are stashed near one wall and, of course, guitars hang from the red walls.

Conferring over a coffee table strewn with CDs, McTear, 28, is eager to give most of the credit to the bands. "The majority of the ideas for how the band should sound on record comes from how the band actually sounds." When he first begins to work with a band, he says, "Initially, I get to feel out what kind of contribution they want me to make. And at that same time, I’m trying to basically just reproduce exactly what they’re giving me. As time goes by, I’m lucky enough to be trusted by a lot of people to give my input. And so… it goes more into a mutual contribution on both parts." Nearly all the bands McTear has worked with, he’s worked with more than once.

Point to the unaffected clarity of the records — McTear’s production is noticeably light on reverb and other studio trickery — and, again, he humbly defers, in this case to his relative inexperience. "I’m young. I’ve only been doing this for a couple of years. I don’t know all the tricks. I know that I like the way these people sound, and they like the way they sound. So we always have that to work with." Referring to the anti-producer ethos of a few years back, he says, "The word ‘producer’ was definitely a bad word for a long, long time. And as a result, I’ve never really had a lot of opportunities to learn about the use of effects. Even the practical use of effects. There’s a whole lot of reasons they made these things in the first place, and not all of them were just to make Pink Floyd records. So someday, I’ll learn [how to use] that stuff."

When McTear talks about learning the equipment, however, it’s not so he can use them for their own sake. "Effects… can actually change the perspective of the listener in a weird way. So, if you have an effect that brings a singer closer to [the listener], depending on what kind of singer and what kind of personality they have, you’re going to have a direct effect on the listener."

He’s talking about the psychological effects of music, rather than the nuts and bolts. If that makes him sound more like a musician than a producer, it’s because he’s both. The first Miner Street Studio was, in ’95, in McTear’s then-West Chester home, when he was a member of the band The Marinernine. After the dissolution of that band and the subsequent one, The Weather, McTear realized that perhaps his musicianship did not lend itself to a band situation. "I’m, I think, a particularly difficult guitarist to play with because I play a lot of the rhythm in my strumming. So I’m not matching up with the drummer."

Hence, Bitter, bitter weeks, McTear’s solo acoustic venture. Recorded entirely in Miner Street’s control room, the eponymous CD is a sparse collection of acoustic songs that range from heart-on-sleeve and winsome to slightly darker, folk-tinged tracks that reflect McTear’s love of Nick Drake. "I finally felt confident that I had it together, and it was time to make a record and put it out. And I have no idea who’s putting it out," he laughs, referring to his current search for a label.

Miner Street and Ferenchak’s CycleSound studios merged in 1999. Located in a 4,000-square-foot warehouse a few blocks away from the Manayunk R6 stop, the studio has a 500-square-foot control room and 900-square-foot cutting room with 18-foot-high ceilings (even though McTear usually does only the basic tracks in that room; most everything is recorded in the control room).

The recording technology ranges from an old tape machine once owned by the band Toto to the latest digital advancements, such as ProTools. Again, though, McTear’s philosophy when it comes to the analog vs. digital debate is grounded in his concern for the musicians. Digital, he says, is often preferable since it allows multiple takes to be saved and chosen from; this is a more relaxing option for the performer.

"I think it would be arrogant of somebody to feel that their individual operation is more important than the singer’s comfort," he says. "You don’t want to put these people through eternal living hell; ’cause what people listen to is the performance. They don’t listen to the recording medium."