Abysmal Crucifix - OFFICIAL WEBSITE

« May 2008 | Main | July 2008 »

June 2008 Archives

June 4, 2008

Imperfect Pitch

Earlier today, we all pitched concepts to Dean Charleston. He told us that he’d take the best ideas to the board at Mildew, but he was less than receptive to our ideas. Because we couldn’t agree on any one concept as a group, I decided last week that we should each take our individual pet projects and pitch them separately. Here’s how it broke down:

I pitched a bunch of recent songs we’ve written, like “Meth Amp City” and a kind of hip-hop/R&B sound I’ve been experimenting with since Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Return’ for a song about craving black cocks. I just pitched 13 polished gems of rock bliss, along the lines of our most commercial successful effort (Backseat Delightlah!, 1998), and Dean Charleston shot the whole idea down with a hand-wave—he doesn’t want songs. He wants a concept album that will live up to the artistry we very nearly achieved on our uncompleted masterpiece You Can Touch It for a Quarter. Keeping that in mind… I had nothing, so I turned the floor over to Margo.

Margo’s idea is about a sassy, brassy exotic dancer who struggles against adversity to marry a prominent heavy metal star. Dean Charleston, turned around, placed his hands in his lap, and started making strange arm movements as Margo described the idea. At the end, he asked her to sing a little bit—since the idea is about a woman, he correctly assumed I wouldn’t be singing the lead vocals on (m)any of the songs. Margo gave a demonstration of her honking, Brooklyn-cum-N’Orleans vocal stylings. It lasted maybe 15 seconds before Charleston, scowling, whirled around and made her stop as he tucked in his shirt-tails.

Little Riffs Nicky tossed out an idea about a teenage Lothario, raised from infancy in a brothel, who spends his life seducing and murdering rich women. The moment he compared it to Sweeney Todd, Charleston looked around the room and said, “What else you got?”

Mikey stepped up, insisting he had a “good one.” Mikey Parker’s Jazz Destructor, a solo album he’s been promising since he got fired from the band two years ago, could be converted into a full-scale Abysmal Crucifix affair. Instead, we’d merely call it Metal Destructor and give it our usual hard-edged, guitar-driven sound. Unfortunately, when Charleston asked Mikey to give an example of what these songs were about, every single one involved the everyday problems associated with forklift operators. Although Charleston admired getting in touch with the blue-collar mindset, he thought an album about working such a pointless job would drive too many fans to suicide. Mikey agreed.

Finally, Carl called back to “Meth Amp City” and suggested expanding it to a full concept album, detailing the harrowing meth addiction that is plaguing many parts of this country. He described a hopeful album where we could show, in song, how far a person can fall, and then, in the second half of the album, build that person back up, and the album as a whole could serve as a metaphor for addiction and recovery.

Dean Charleston leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully stroking his chin. He said, “It’s all shit. You kids should be ashamed.”

“Aren’t you younger than we are?” Carl asked.

“Maybe in years,” Charleston said. “But, come on… Albums about teen sex and recovery from addiction? What are we, fifth-graders?”

“But—” I started.

“This is terrible,” Dean Charleston sighed. “I can’t take any of this shit to the board. Look, I’ll give you another week. Maybe…” He opened up his calendar. “Six days. We’ll meet on Tuesday, same time. You give me a really good idea, one I can take to the board, one we can market and get the ball rolling on. You’ll have a deal. Okay?”

We all looked at each other with uncertainty, then filed out of the office.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on June 4, 2008 11:14 AM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Colby & Perdida Mildew Recording Artists | Digg It

June 6, 2008

Chance Meeting

Last night, I got trashed. For some reason, I felt like total shit this morning. I guess after what happened at Mildew, I couldn’t help feeling like the end was near. Nobody will book us thanks to our last tour, we can’t get a new album off the ground… How can I survive if nobody wants to hear me express myself through music? For so long, I’ve identified myself as the musician/poet/novelist/actor/laxative pitchman—how can I change gears now?

I wanted to turn to Margo for help and guidance, but as soon as we finished the pitch, she packed her bags for a modeling session in Vancouver. I can’t help feeling we may be drifting apart. With her gone, I helped myself in the only way I knew how. This morning, after spending a few hours in Vendome replenishing the liquor supply, I made a stop at the Peet’s Coffee on Ventura for a nice americano pick-me-up.

As I waited in the line contemplating adding a snickerdoodle cookie or two to my order, a familiar voice called, “Girth?”

June 10, 2008

Pitching Fuck Machines

“…and in the end, it’s our heroine’s job to dismantle the unloved robot.”

Down on one knee, tears streaming down my cheeks, I leaped to my feet. Riffs tossed me an acoustic guitar, and I said, “And he sings a song that goes a little something…like this…”

As I strummed a haunting chord progression, Dean Charleston clapped slowly, almost sarcastically. “Bravo,” he sneered. “You’ve managed to waste my time yet again.”

“Are you kidding me?” I roared. “Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’ is a moneymaker endorsed by no less a Hollywood hack than Perdida Cheyenne.”

Charleston raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“That’s right,” I said. “I came up with the idea years ago, but I actually forgot about it until I ran into Perdida and she reminded me. She helped me flesh it out a bit, in more ways than one.”

“In more ways… I hope that’s a joke, McDürchstein,” Charleston snapped. “You’re a married man. And on that subject, Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’? We’re gonna go ahead and drop your name from the title.”

“What?!”

“It’s simple: Star Sex sold 16,000 copies. Two Berries on a Twig sold 18,000. Backseat Delightlah! sold an impressive 175,000 records worldwide. Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Hedge’ sold 93 copies, many of them in Finland, where you, shortly before that time, hosted a successful drive-time radio show and Piru Paska pitchman.” Charleston chuckled acidly and added, “Try saying that three times fast.”

I did as he asked without much effort.

Charleston scowled. “Impressive—more impressive than McDürchstein name recognition. We will not put it on the title. Ignoring the formidable brand-association problems, our market research suggests music fans want to see a cohesive band unit, working together. Abysmal Crucifix has always had a reputation for in-fighting and disastrous break-ups and reformations. They’re not planning to release Axl Rose Presents Chinese Democracy—it’s Guns N’ Roses’ Chinese Democracy. It no longer matters that Mr. Rose is the only original member of the band.”

I sighed. “This is a labor of love. My love.”

“Do you want me to cancel your labor of love?”

I looked down at the floor, shuffling my feet. “No, sir.”

“Well then,” Dean Charleston said sunnily, “we’re in business! Abysmal Crucifix’s Fuck Machines is a go! I expect you guys to start writing and recording as soon as possible. You still own the Paint Shaker, right?”

“I honestly don’t remember,” I muttered. “I think you bought it.”

“So be it,” Charleston said. “As long as it won’t be foreclosed in the near future. Good luck, gentlemen.”

We all shuffled out of his office.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on June 10, 2008 12:51 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Colby & Perdida Mildew Recording Artists | Digg It

June 14, 2008

Under My Skin

Perdida Cheyenne breezed into town last night after spending a week in Capetown for preproduction meetings on Crocodemon. She gave me a call, knowing full well that I pitched her Fuck Machines idea to the assholes at Mildew. She wanted to know how it went, but she happened to catch me at a bad time. I had to clean the whole Paint Shaker before the cats from Mildew came around. Riffs, Mikey, and Carl have been living there for months, and it’s turned into quite a sty as a result.

I shut off the vacuum and asked to call her back in half an hour. She told me she wouldn’t be around and told me, instead, to drop by her apartment and hang out when she got back. I couldn’t say no to that.

June 18, 2008

Friends for So Many Years

“You’re not understanding me!” Lacey roared, throwing a drumstick at my head. I ducked, and it sailed over my head, missing me by inches, and clanked against the eggshell wall of the studio. “The cocksucking label sent me to make sure you assholes do things right.”

“What’s ‘right’?” I asked, carefully standing. “They think it’s wrong to keep the formula that’s worked for years?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Girth, but the formula hasn’t worked in years,” Lacey said.

“She’s right,” Carl said softly.

“Fuck you guys!” I shouted.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on June 18, 2008 6:12 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Colby & Perdida Mildew Recording Artists | Digg It

June 21, 2008

It’s Chinatown

Things got a little hairy this afternoon, in more ways than one. Perdida Cheyenne called me up and invited me to celebrate the Summer Solstice with her at the annual Chinese Food Festival in Chinatown. At first, I was reluctant, but then I remembered how hot she looked at the Poz Gala, so I agreed to meet her.

A few minutes after that, Colby called: “I have a fix on Harmonica.”

“Who?” I asked.

“That’s my code name for Perdida,” he explained.

“What?”

“She’s going to the Chinese Food Festival,” Colby said. “She’s meeting someone there, and I think it may be her murderer. We need to do some recon.”

“Today’s not a good day,” I said. “I’m really busy—”

“Fine,” Colby snapped. “I’ll go by myself.”

“No!” I yelped. “I’ll… What time should I meet you?”

June 23, 2008

What’s Wrong with Being Sexy?

Well, we spent the past few days putting together demos for the Fuck Machines project. I submitted them to Dean Charleston yesterday; today, he called me in for a meeting. I asked if I should bring the band, and he hung up on me. I took that as a “no,” but I told the boys to stay on call in case I misinterpreted Charleston’s signal.

At the Mildew office, the receptionist led me to a large conference room overlooking Hollywood. The long table was lined with scowling men and women of all ages, creeds, and colors. At the other end of the table, barely visible in the hazy distance, sat Dean Charleston. Even from this distance, I could see that smug, white smile.

“Sit down, McDürchstein,” he said.

I sat.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on June 23, 2008 3:53 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Colby & Perdida Mildew Recording Artists | Digg It

June 24, 2008

So Perdida

Still smarting from Mildew’s rejection and my frustrating conversation with Margo, I decided to blow off some steam by showing up at Perdida’s apartment unannounced. I suspected from her blog and Twitter that she mostly sat around her apartment, lying about having an active and exciting social life. This turned out to be true, so when I knocked on the door, she popped it right open.

“Girth.” She sounded surprised.

“Hey,” I said softly. “Can I come in?”

She pulled the door wide open, nodding her head toward the lip-shaped couch. I took a seat, and she flopped down next to me, gently putting a hand on my knee.

“So listen,” I said, “things went real bad with Mildew yesterday. They think the album needs more feminine perspective, so I figured maybe you could help with it.”

“What about your wife?” Perdida inquired.

“Forget about her,” I grumbled. “I just thought… You said you wanted to work on a script, and I thought since we made such a good team for Crocodemon, maybe we could team up again on a Fuck Machines screenplay, and I can use that as a template for the album’s storyline.”

Perdida looked pensive for a moment before exclaiming, “Yeah, that’s a great idea!”

We had some Chinese food delivered, then spent the next two hours doing little more than hashing out the details of the future dystopia in which the story takes place. Before we got into the nitty gritty of the story itself, Perdida excused herself to shower.

While she was in there, I snuck into the bedroom, climbed on the touch-sensitive rotating bed, and removed the bug Colby made me plant. I thought it’d take a lot of effort, but I managed to yank out the bug pretty quickly and smash it on the polished hardwood floor of her bedroom long before Perdida had shut the water off.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, I was back on the couch, jotting down notes for the storyline. I noticed her standing on the doorway, motionless for far too long. I glanced up and got a double-eyeful of her glistening, hard body. She wore nothing but a push-up bra and granny panties. Despite this, she still looked totally hot.

“Holy shit,” I gasped as all my blood rushed downstairs.

“Listen,” Perdida said, “I’m a little tired. You can keep working if you want, and it’s cool if you crash here, but I’m just gonna go in the bedroom and lie down. Alone.”

“Y…” I trailed off, uncertain of how to finish the word.

She crossed the room to the bedroom and shut the door—but not quite all the way. Through the crack came tantalyzing dots of spinning light from the overhead mirrorball. I stared at the pages of notes we compiled, trying in vain to continue working.

All I did was stare.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on June 24, 2008 3:54 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Colby & Perdida | Digg It

June 30, 2008

Paint’s Peeling

After hour seven of attempting to record “In the Future…,” the pivotal opening track for Fuck Machines, Mikey and I went out in the dusty alley behind the Paint Shaker for a cigarette break.

“She’s drivin’ me fuckin’ nuts!” Mikey complained.

That’s right: Girth, in his infinite wisdom, dragged screenwriter/skank Perdida Cheyenne into the studio. See, Margo’s been out of town for weeks shooting what she calls a “multi arc” on this shitty TV series, Black Belt Irish. Last week, Mildew told Girth the record needs a “feminine perspective.” Since Margo’s not due back until the fourth, Girth decided to bring in his new best friend to give her perspective.