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June 30, 2008

Paint’s Peeling

Written by Carl on June 30, 2008 3:54 PM
Permalink |  Colby & Perdida Mildew Recording Artists  | Digg It

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.

Here’s the problem with Perdida: she’s an overbearing tard. She has this impression that as long as she’s referencing something musical, she’s a musician. That’s fine — I can name-drop P.M. Dawn and 4 Non Blondes, too, but that doesn’t make me some kind of obscure genius; it makes me someone who paid attention to music in the early ’90s. Trust me, kiddies. Those groups got tons of airplay. They weren’t exactly the Young Fresh Fellows (look ‘em up). At any rate, saying something like, “This needs to have more of a ‘Downtown Venus’ vibe,” doesn’t mean anything to a musician or even to Carlos, our producer. They’re just words leaving the mouth of someone desperate to show she knows what she’s talking about when…she doesn’t.

And hey, I don’t give a shit. I just drum when I’m told, and based on the whole industrial/electronica vibe Girth wants for this, I won’t be doing much more than learning how to program a drum machine for 80% of Fuck Machines. What bugs me is, we’re a heavy metal band. We play hard-edged music about fucking chicks and watching TV. That’s always been the Abysmal way, right?

So why does Perdida Cheyenne stroll into the studio and slowly, over the course of a few hours, convince Girth that we need to take the sound of “In the Future…” — a song that quite literally establishes the sci-fi tone of the story and overproduced futuristic sound we want to capture — and turn it into some kind of whiny acoustic folk song. Not even folk-rock! This is: strum a single chord arrhythmically while you wheeze out an off-key non-melody. What the fuck does that have to do with the future? Is this a future society where robots have outlawed all musical instruments and recording devices except for battered, un-tuneable no-name acoustic guitars and avocado Wollensak 4-tracks? What the fuck?

I sympathized with Mikey. I told him, “Don’t worry, man. Margo’s back Friday, and there’s no way he has the balls to bring Perdida around when she’s in the studio.”

“True,” Mikey said, exhaling blue smoke. “Christ, I never thought I’d look forward to seeing Margo in the studio.”

I chuckled. I actually like Margo — in addition to being fucking hot, we’ve developed an odd kinship as a result of our mutual codependent relationships with Girth. I know Mikey hates her, though, and I don’t like her enough to defend her.

“Fuckin’ hot out today,” I said.

“You know what the problem is?” Mikey asked. “She doesn’t get metal. She wants this album to be the kind of shitty bitch-rock she listens to.”

Don’t be alarmed ladies — by “bitch-rock,” he doesn’t mean L7 or anything. He’s actually talking about the Conor Oberst-type whiny emo crap that men put out in order to convince chicks they’re really sensitive and nice, so they’ll sleep with them. If they aren’t gay; if they are, they’re just idiots.

“That’s true,” I said. “Maybe she thinks that’s what Mildew means by ‘feminine perspective.’”

“Is that what they mean?”

“Fuck, I hope not,” I said. “They’re called ‘Mildew’ and they’ve released almost nothing but metal since they started, so I can’t imagine they’re into it. I think they just don’t want Girth releasing an album that’s the audio equivalent of a porno movie.”

Mikey laughed acidly. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

“Hey, man. It’s probably futile, but they own our asses now. The least Girth could do is listen.”

“Yeah,” Mikey agreed, “but not to her.” He jerked his head toward the big metal doors leading back inside, indicating Perdida.

I tossed my cigarette onto the asphalt, not bothering to stub it out. “I’ll go talk to him,” I said. “He still listens to me sometimes.”

Mikey shrugged and nodded simultaneously.

I went back into the Paint Shaker. After waiting a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, I went into Carlos’s booth. Girth stood there, headphones hugging his ears, listening to the playback of what we’d recorded before the break.

“How does it sound?” I asked.

“Awesome,” Girth said, flashing his phony grin of steel.

I looked around and saw no sign of Perdida.

“Listen, Girth…” I said gently.

He took off the headphones. “What’s up?” he asked, sounding rushed.

“Perdida’s a great gal,” I lied, “and maybe she’s helping you figure out the storyline for this album, but…”

“But what?”

“She doesn’t really seem to get the Abysmal sound,” I said. “She’s trying to turn us into…pussies.”

Girth’s face drooped as he released a heavy sigh. He looked back up, smiling genuinely. “Thank fucking Christ!” he exclaimed, forcing me into an awkward bear hug. “This shit sounds fucking awful!”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I didn’t want to say it in front of Perdida—”

“Say what in front of Perdida?” she lilted as she entered the room, a cup of Yoplait in one hand and a plastic spoon in the other.

“That your input fucking sucks balls,” I said, snapping my head in her direction.

She looked shocked.

“Look, you might know how to tell a story, although that’s pretty questionable in my opinion, but you don’t know a goddamn thing about music, what Abysmal’s about, or how we want this record to sound. You can feel free to keep Girth from slowly morphing this album into The Adventures of Captain Cock Across the Vaginus Maximus Galaxy or something, but keep your nose out of the music. Girth’s not Cat fucking Power!”

She looked over at Girth. So did I. He looked like a deer caught in headlights.

“Girth,” Perdida said in a hostile tone. “Why is this drummer speaking to me?”

Girth chuckled uncomfortably. “He gets out of line sometimes. Carl, apologize to Perdida—”

“Ms. Cheyenne—”

“Ms. Cheyenne.”

I turned to Perdida, who stared at me smugly. “You need to leave,” I said. “Christ, I wish this place wasn’t such a dump. I’d send security after you.”

“Girth!” Perdida exclaimed.

“Look,” I said, “please, just leave. Let us record in peace. Margo’s gonna be back in a few days, so I don’t know why you think it’s smart to get comfortable here.”

“Margo’s coming back?” Perdida roared, whirling on Girth.

“She’s my wife,” he said.

“You son of a fuck!” she shouted. “You’re just like all the rest!”

“Married?” I quipped.

“Fuck you!” she yapped, emphasizing each word by pointing at me with the spoon.

She stormed out of the booth.

“Perdida, wait,” Girth said, quietly and apathetically.

After we heard one of the front doors squeak open and closed, I said, “We need to get some WD-40 for those doors.” Then I said, “Look, I’m sorry. I figured she knew.”

“Why the fuck would she know that?” Girth snapped. “Are you a moron? Why would I tell somebody that dumb my wife’s coming back? She’d never know this is a fuck-and-run until it’s too late.”

“Gee, sorry I ruined your action,” I said.

“It’s fine,” he sighed. “She’s just the first girl in awhile where I’ve felt anything… You know, down there…”

“What?” This was news to me.

“Yeah,” Girth said. “Keep this on the down-low, but I’ve been having problems pretty much since Sarah died. Margo will kill me if she ever figures out the timing, but so far she hasn’t.”

“Sucks, dude,” I said, clapping an arm around his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Girth shrugged my arm away. “I think it has a lot to do with why I decided now’s the time to make this album.”

“Cool, man,” I said. “Then let’s get back to work.”

Girth nodded, smiling.