You may not recognize the name Stanley Tonkel, but chances are good that your life has been touched by his work. Over a span of more than 30 years, he has been on every kind of recording date, including classical, folk, rock, and jazz. From Springsteen’s demo to Hendrix’s last concert, the man was there, not as a bystander, but as a recording engineer. From the launch pad, Stan, who was 83 when he died last Monday, watched the blast off of the most important music careers of the 20th century, musicians that are still burning bright in the 21st century.

In the ’50s, Stan was struggling to raise a family in Teaneck. He had a degree in music composition and was supporting himself as a recording engineer, doing mostly classical dates. "The money just wasn’t coming in," he told me at a Rosh HaShanah dinner in New Milford, where we were both guests. "I was always broke trying to keep up to date with the changing technology. After 10 years of living this way, I made the decision to go back to school for an engineering degree. Just as I was about to enroll, I got the call from Columbia Records to fill a spot as a recording engineer. A colleague who knew my work had recommended me for the job. I stayed with them for 33 years until I retired. Looking back, I’m glad I didn’t try to make it as a composer. I would have starved to death."

Stanley was actually there for Bob Dylan’s audition with Columbia Records. "As the two of us were standing alone in the control booth at Studio B," he told me over apples and honey, "a stranger off the street ran into the recording studio. He quickly took Dylan’s guitar off the stand and began mimicking like he was strumming the guitar. He did this for just a few moments and then just ran away. We just looked at each other and I asked Bob, ‘Was that guy with you?’ Dylan said, ‘No. I thought he was with you!’" (Stan noted that this was at a time when tight security was not a necessary component of life.)

As for Dylan, Stan mentioned that talent mogul John Hammond had said, "This kid has all these notebooks full of material. He has something, but I don’t quite know where to place him." According to Stan, they trotted in various studio musicians, "but nobody could figure out how to play with him, at first. Eventually they got it figured out and made a recording."

I asked him if there was ever a time as an engineer that all he had to do was simply turn on the recording equipment and just sit back. "No," he said, "you couldn’t do that, as everything was constantly changing."

Regrettably, Stan’s work appears on many Columbia albums for which there is no credit given to the recording engineer. One such album is Miles Davis’ "My Funny Valentine," a 1964 Live at Lincoln Center recording that contains one of the coolest saxophone solos ever by reed man George Coleman, not to mention young Herbie Hancock’s textural piano work.

At one session, Stan recalled, he had to say, "Miles, you’re making me dizzy!" The jazz icon was huddled in the corner torching a joint before the session and Stan was starting to feel overcome by the smoke. Davis told him, "Be cool, Stanley." In a business riddled with every kind of doper and stoner, I asked Stanley how he managed to stay clean. "I made a conscious decision not to get swept into that life," he said. "I never did drugs or drank alcohol. Most artists you would not want as a friend or neighbor."

Stan told me that on a remote live recording date in Europe at the famed Isle of Wight festival, "Miles stepped out of a helicopter, looked around and said, ‘I’m glad you’re here, Stanley.’ Miles Davis was a guy who never had a kind word for anybody and here he was saying he was happy to see me!"

With everyone he’s recorded, Stan said he was asked the most about the Miles Davis groundbreaker "Bitches Brew," an album featuring young musicians who today are jazz giants. Stan seemed both proud and a little bugged, as he had done many, many other great recordings over a 33-year period. For those who don’t know, "Bitches Brew" is an acquired taste and a one-time-listen for a lot of serious musicians. With Miles Davis as the chef and Stanley turning the knobs on the stove, the two men, along with producer Teo Maceo, went on to record a turning point in jazz history. "Miles just came in and recorded everything completely out of sequence," Stan said. "Everything was later reassembled into what everyone knows as ‘Bitches Brew.’"

I happened to have my copy of "Bitches Brew" with me that night (just in case). Since I have my own interest in recording, when Stan asked me what I would want him to write I asked the following: "Dear Joff, You’ll never record an album like this in a million years! –Stanley Tonkel." He seemed delighted and chuckled a bit as he scribbled out his autograph. (The exclamation point was his addition.) I wanted something that would take the sting out of his being bugged about this album and highlight the fact that he had recorded something really remarkable.

Jewish Standard publisher James Janoff had been after Stan for years to make a documentary recounting his many experiences in the recording industry.

Stan had agreed to a loose format of being handed an album at random and commenting on it. One small question would trigger a memory and a 10-minute answer.

With such an impressive résumé in the music industry, Stanley was quick to wave it all aside to talk about his two sons, Josh and Ray. He was extremely proud of them and the career paths they had chosen.

When I received the phone call informing me of Stanley Tonkel’s passing I was saddened that we would never get to shoot that video. The brief time that I spent with him had special meaning. I’m glad I have the good fortune to participate in this small celebration of Stan’s long, creative life.

Predeceased by his wife, Ellen, he is survived by his sons Ray and Josh, who live in New England.

Joff Jones is a composer and arranger whose main instrument is the guitar. He is the author of "Playing Chord Progressions" (Hal Leonard Corporation).