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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.

“Look,” Lacey said, “it’s not a big deal. They just want you to write the album together, like a band. Dean Charleston thinks your blog can be a really good tool for publicity, but he was really angry to see your last post, which makes it seem like you and Perdida Cheyenne are flying solo.”

“What’s wrong with that?” I asked. “She’s a Hollywood icon, and if her movie version does well, this album could—”

“Girth,” Lacey said, inching closer to me, “you have a wife. You have a band. Market research suggests developing a camaraderie with them will boost public opinion, which will boost sales, which will put you back on top. You have to at least look like friends who are having a good time.”

“We’ve been friends for years!” Mikey growled. “That’s why we can’t fucking stand each other!”

“What does market research say about one-night stands with skanky screenwriters?” I asked.

Lacey opened a thick binder and examined a variety of pages before saying, “It says, ‘Don’t do it.’”

“Huh.” I sighed, sitting on a low-to-the-ground stool. I pointed at Mikey and said, “Mikey, give me some ideas for a bassline on ‘Orgy Porgy.’”

“What?” Mikey asked. “You’re… You want to know my opinion?”

Riffs started to laugh.

“I don’t want a goddamn opinion,” I snapped. “I want a bassline. Now!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mikey said. “Okay, Girth.”

He slung the bass over his shoulder, took a look at the charts for “Orgy Porgy,” and started plunking out a bassline—nothing but the root note of each chord. The whole time, he watched me with an eager smile.

I rolled my eyes as I turned to Lacey. “I rest my case.”

Lacey started to say something, but something else occurred to me. I cut her off, saying, “Wait a second—what’s with this whole ‘togetherness’ schtick when Margo has barely been in town since we got back from our tour? I know she’s your secret lesbian lover or whatever, but I don’t think there’s any reason she should be exempt from writing the album with us, if you’re going to make us write it as a team.”

“Oh God,” Lacey groaned. “You’re so transparent. We all know you just want to take long, long breaks and fuck her.”

“What’s wrong with that? It’s part of the process.”

“It’d be a better process if you could do it without pills—”

“Hey!” I shifted my eyes toward Riffs, Carl, and Mikey. I could tell they were trying to hold in laughter. To Lacey, I said, “Nobody’s supposed to know about that.”

“That’s what you get for blogging it,” Lacey grumbled.

It occurred to me that blogs could have a downside.

“Bottom line,” Lacey said. “Mildew wants this album to make money. They’ve put a lot of effort into figuring out what will make money, so you guys have to stick with it. You don’t, and they’ll cut you loose. Got it?”

We all muttered affirmations.

“Good,” Lacey said. “I’m outta here.”

When she left, I turned to the band and said, “You guys don’t want any creative input, do you?”

“No,” Riffs said with absolutely no follow-up.

“Look,” Mikey said, “I’d love to have some goddamn input once in awhile, but I got a hard time with this shit. Everything I either do is just gonna be top notes or some kind of bass-driven jazz song. You may be an asshole, but I can’t rock like you, Girth.”

Carl started tapping the side of snare as he contemplated. Then he said, “I don’t even particularly want to be in this band. Why would I want the added stress of a songwriting credit? You know if the album tanks, we all go down with you. I’d rather have them say, ‘Wow, the songs are terrible, but there’s some good drumming by Carl Davenport.’”

“That’s the spirit!” I cheered. “Now, let’s rehearse ‘Cloud City of Best Sin.’”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 18, 2008 6:12 PM
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