Inside the studio, time seemed to lose meaning when Neil Diamond locked onto a song. Musicians who worked with him recall sessions where a single track was played, stopped, adjusted, and restarted for hours—not out of indecision, but obsession with detail. Perfection was not assumed; it was extracted through repetition.
Diamond approached recording as a process of excavation. Each pass through a song was meant to uncover something slightly truer than the last. Tempo shifts measured in seconds, vocal inflections altered by degrees, phrasing tightened or loosened until it matched the emotion he carried in his head. What sounded “good enough” to others rarely met his standard.
Session players quickly learned patience was essential. A take could be technically flawless and still rejected. Diamond listened for feel rather than accuracy—whether the groove breathed naturally, whether the lyric landed with the intended weight. If it didn’t, the tape rolled again. And again.
This intensity was not theatrical. Diamond rarely raised his voice or dramatized dissatisfaction. Instead, he focused inward, replaying sections repeatedly, sometimes humming lines under his breath, sometimes closing his eyes as if isolating a problem only he could hear. The repetition wasn’t punishment; it was precision work.
Engineers recall that small changes mattered enormously to him. A backing vocal mixed too high could distract from the narrative. A drum fill placed a fraction too early could disrupt emotional flow. Diamond believed songs functioned as systems—altering one component affected the whole. Refinement required patience and endurance.
The hours-long repetition tested stamina. Fingers cramped. Voices tired. Yet Diamond pushed on, driven by a belief that the right version existed and could be reached through persistence. He expected the same commitment from everyone in the room, not out of authority, but example. He stayed engaged for every take, never delegating the hard listening.
Some musicians initially mistook the process for overthinking. But many later admitted the results justified the grind. The final recordings carried a clarity and emotional cohesion that couldn’t be rushed. Diamond’s songs felt inevitable, as if they could exist in no other form—an illusion made possible by countless discarded versions.
The method also reflected his songwriter’s mindset. Diamond treated lyrics as living elements, not fixed text. A repeated line might gain or lose power depending on delivery. Repetition allowed him to test those variables in real time, refining storytelling through sound rather than theory.
Not every session ended easily. Fatigue bred frustration, and progress could stall. Yet Diamond rarely abandoned a track unfinished. Walking away before resolution felt like surrender. He believed discipline, not inspiration, was the engine of great records.
Musicians who endured those marathon sessions came away with a deeper understanding of his work ethic. Neil Diamond didn’t chase spontaneity—he constructed inevitability. Repeating a single song for hours wasn’t excess; it was commitment to a vision that refused compromise.