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August 5, 2008

Writer’s Cock Block

Everyone knows I thrive on conflict, but since Margo forgave me, we’ve entered a new honeymoon phase. She’s nice to me all the time. It’s unsettling.

It has also created problems in the studio. How, exactly, does one write a sexy, futuristic soap opera when the soapy elements in his own life have disappeared? Granted, I have the screenplay Perdida and I wrote available to use as a template, but I like to write music that evokes the feeling, and much like the composer Richard Wagner, I can’t evoke the feeling in music without personally experiencing the emotions as I write. I like to think this is what caused so much drama between myself, Perdida, and Colby. Margo doesn’t, but she forgave me, so who cares?

To some extent, Mikey’s stupidity is creating conflict, but it’s not the right sort of conflict. As I struggle to write various themes at motives for Fuck Machines, he keeps popping up with half-retarded suggestions, like how the robot overlords should be underscored with a bass doubling the melody. I’d consider entertaining such ideas if he were competent enough to replicate it live.

After frustrating myself for hours with a drab, minor-key melody that I hear in my head but can’t seem to work out on paper, Carl came into the studio. He looked very sober and serious.

“We need to have a talk,” he said.

We went out back, where the guys usually take their cigarette breaks.

“Look,” he said, “we know you’re having trouble with the album, but remember the whole thing where we’re supposed to write it as a team?”

“Shit, man,” I groaned. “You’re not defending Mikey, are you?”

“No,” Carl said. “His ideas suck balls, but at least he’s throwing something out there. You’ve been ignoring the rest of us, though. Haven’t you notice Riffs hasn’t shown up once this week?”

“He hasn’t?”

“He’s working on a solo album, man. He’ll always come back if you actually finish the album, but he’s not holding out much hope. Why should he? Riffs actually has ideas, but you haven’t listened to a fucking thing any of us have had to say for months. All you do is pay attention to that retard, Perdida Cheyenne. As the band and your marriage are falling apart.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Fuck.”

“So what are we gonna do about it?”

“I guess I could stage a series of fights with them to inspire me to finish the album,” I said.

“Good plan,” Carl said. “Or you could listen to us once in awhile. Riffs has been through a lot of the territory you’re exploring on the album, up to and including fucking robots.”

“What?”

“I dunno,” Carl said, waving his hands in disgust. “He said something about being in Japan and stumbling into some Honda unveiling. I forced him to stop talking.”

“Oh,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed.

“The point is,” Carl went on, “you touch on a lot of themes that hit close to home for all of us, except Mikey, who I don’t think has been laid by anyone or anything since high school. You might not be feeling it, but we are. We can help, if you just start listening.”

“You’re right.” I suddenly fell like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. “Thanks, man.”

Carl grinned. “What are friends for?”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 5, 2008 3:59 PM
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