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August 18, 2008

Electronica

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 18, 2008 4:02 PM
Permalink |  Colby & Perdida Mildew Recording Artists  | Digg It

“This is turning out like shit,” Carlos Ueberschaer said after we listened to some rough takes of the first Fuck Machines track, “In the Future.”

He was right: per usual, Mikey sucked fucking balls on the bass, and something about the sound just didn’t feel right. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” Carl volunteered. “I don’t have fucking shit to do on this record. You made the whole thing drum machines to make it sound all futuristic and crappy. Why am I even here?”

“For moral support,” I replied.

“I hate to say this,” Carlos Ueberschaer said, “but you know what I think the real problem is? You’ve written a very keyboard-driven record, and Margo…just isn’t up to the challenge.”

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“Arrange the keyboard parts for a couple of guitars and have her just play droning tones throughout the record,” he said. “It’ll give it a nice, ’70s sci-fi feel without her having to do any of the heavy lifting.”

“That’s gonna kill her,” I whined.

“Well, it’s either that or can her completely and hire back Jam Malone.”

“Fuck,” I sighed. Then I got an idea.

I went into the studio, where Margo waited impatiently with Mikey and Riffs.

“Can we have some privacy?” I asked the other two.

They snickered as they left.

“Babydoll,” I whispered sensually, “how are things going with Black Belt Irish and The State of the Union Is Bonkers?”

“You prick,” she spat. “Just tell me I suck. Don’t try to soften the blow by bringing up my flagging career as a quote-unquote actress.”

“You don’t suck,” I said. “It’s just… Carlos and I were talking, and we realized this is supposed to be a rock record, not some ’80s synth-pop crap. He thinks it needs to be guitar-driven, so we’re gonna sideline the keyboards for little more than ethereal tones.”

She sighed. “You know, it’s shit like this that made Jam quit.”

“Actually, I fired Jam,” I said. “He just didn’t come back.”

“Touché,” Margo replied. “Let me ask you something, though.”

“Anything…”

“Do you think Perdida has more talent than I do?”

I couldn’t help bursting out laughing. Through my guffaws, I managed a quivering, “No.”

Margo smiled and gave me a big hug. “Thank you,” she whispered in my ear, her breath hot and smelling of Doritos. I miss Doritos.

“I love you,” I said.

“Me too.” She stood and sashayed out of the studio. I made sure Carlos and Carl were distracted in conversation before quietly beating off behind the wall of keyboards.