October 27, 2007
Soaked in the Rain
“It’s boring and repetitive,” Mikey said defiantly, setting his bass down on its stand as he crossed the room toward me.
“It’s revolutionary,” I countered. “Nothing like this has ever been done in the history of music—a metalcore hip-hopera using variations on the same chord progression over and over and over, telling a story with so many twists, turns, and cliffhangers it’s nearly impossible to believe.”
Mikey arched his eyebrows. “Nearly?”
“It all happened!”
“What’s with the shit with the tranny meth addict?” Carl asked.
“She may not have been a tranny,” I conceded, “but she was certainly built like a man.”
“Is that why you made out with her?” Riffs asked out of nowhere.
Everyone turned to him, each of us in mild shock. Carl and Mikey started to laugh. Margo and I exchanged irritated glances.
Carlos Ueberschaer’s voice came on the talkback: “Guys, you wanna get back to work so we can go home sometime tonight?”
“He’s right,” I said. “I have a daughter to think of.”
Margo huffed audibly, which made Mikey snicker.
“Just hang on a sec, Carlos,” Carl said, holding his hand out at the booth window in the universal “stop” gesture.
Carlos nodded, tossed his headphones angrily onto the mixing console, and stormed out of the booth, most likely on his way to urinate.
“We need to discuss this,” Carl said. “Do you really think going all hip-hop is the best way to utilize our talents?”
“What talents?” Margo snapped.
“Jesus Christ, woman—”
“Don’t you call me ‘woman.’” Margo inched toward him.
“You wanna take this out to the green room—”
“Guys,” I said authoritatively. “Now, Carl, explain yourself.”
“I don’t want to sound like a dick, man, but you got what’s basically an hour of music that repeats the same four bars over and over, with a few very minor variations throughout. It’s all studio ‘wizardry’ with no soul, and it’ll be impossible to replicate live. I mean, the percussion centerpiece is a water drop, for Christ’s sake.”
“He’s right, Girth,” Riffs said. “It’s a showcase for your…limited vocal abilities, and I have to agree that it won’t sell.”
“Et tu, Little Riffs Nicky?”
Riffs shrugged sheepishly.
“On the plus side, it’s also a showcase for the fuzz bass,” Mikey added.
“Yeah, repeating four notes over and over,” Carl said.
“Fair enough,” Mikey sighed.
“Margo, what do you think?”
Margo searched each person’s face, lingering on mine the longest, before she said, “I guess I think they’re right.”
“What?!”
“Girth! You ‘hired’ me as a keyboard player, but I can’t play. You’ve focused the instruments mainly on synthesizers and guitars too layered for you and Riffs to cover—they’re right. It’s a studio piece. How are we gonna promote it on tour?”
“Greatest hits?”
“Audiences won’t stand for a four-minute set,” Mikey noted. Carl laughed.
I glared at both of them. Carl’s face fell and he went to sit behind his useless drum kit.
“Sorry, Girth,” Mikey said. “All I’m saying is what I said the other day: this is the third time we’ve worked on this album, though it’s first time you’ve completely rewritten it, and it’s just not going anywhere. It’s like, a band is like a shark—it has to constantly move forward or else it dies. I think what we have on our hands is a dead shark.”
“Annie Hall,” Riffs said for reasons unclear to me.
“I don’t know,” I sighed, collapsing back into the overstuffed chair where I often supervise recording sessions, whether I’m needed or not. “Margo…?”
“I’m going to go get a drink,” she said quietly and left.
“Fine,” I said to the remaining band members. “I’ll sleep on it. If it seems like a good idea in the morning, we’ll cancel The Return once and for all.”
“Wait,” Mikey said. “What then? You have more songs written, I assume.”
“Of course,” I lied. I had poured all of my energy into The Return for nearly two years. Who had time to write other songs?
“So can we go?” Carl asked.
“I suppose,” I said. “I’ll call you guys tomorrow about whether or not we’re recording. Maybe we’ll put a rush release on the live album to keep the fans interested.”
They all shrugged half-heartedly and muttered goodnights as they filed out of the studio. When Carlos got back, I waved for him to go home. He flipped me off and bounced.
Margo came back with a bottle of Jameson. “Everything okay?” she whispered.
“Shit hasn’t been okay in a real long time, Margo,” I said. I could feel myself on the brink of sobbing and tried to hold it back—I needed to stay strong for her.
Margo sat gingerly on my lap and handed me the bottle. I took a sip. It stung the back of my throat and made my eyes water—I could get the sobs out that way.
“Am I a loser?” I asked.
Margo took a long, hard look at me, then kissed me on the forehead. “Who isn’t?” she breathed as I licked her neck.
“I just keep feeling like…like I almost was something. Somebody. I came so close, and then—”
“You ran away,” Margo said, gently sliding her hand up and down my back.
“Why can’t I stop running?”
“Come on, now,” Margo whispered. “You don’t have to run anymore.” She cleared her throat, then began to sing in her usual nasal honk.
Two berries on a twig…
I joined on the harmony:
Soaked in the rain…
When one falls, I’ll be there to catch it
Come on, let’s fuck!
We did.
Written by Girth McDürchstein on October 27, 2007 9:31 AM
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