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April 25, 2008

Tour Blog: Cleveland — American Splendor

This morning, I got up early and went down the street to get a cup of coffee. The weather was nice—not too cold like it’s been lately. So down at the coffee shop, I found myself stuck in a line. I hate waiting in lines, waiting for all them people to stand around figuring out what they want, like they haven’t been standing in line for 10 minutes waiting for other people to decide, time they could have spent looking at the menu board and making a decision. All I want is a damn cup of coffee—no donuts, no scones, none of that shit. Just coffee. And I have wait endlessly.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on April 25, 2008 6:16 PM
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May 5, 2008

Mildew Meeting

Dean Charleston had a smarmy look about him—skin so deeply tanned it had begun to develop premature wrinkles, teeth so blinding white I would have needed sunglasses if I hadn’t already been wearing my mirrored aviators, hair so greasy you could plant a flag in it. He sat at the end of the conference table with some other A&R people—one go-getting blow-combed junior-executive wannabe, the other a bored-looking goth chick—when I walked into the room.

“Girth,” he said. In person, his voice oozed game-show host affability that I hadn’t heard when I spoke with him on the phone.

“Mr. Charleston,” I said, shaking his hand. I extended my hand to the others, who looked at me like I had offered them a shit sandwich. I withdrew my hand and sat.

May 11, 2008

Mildon’t

I took the contract to Feinstein. The band had absolutely no complaints about the deal (in fact, the phrases “thank fucking God” and “holy fuck why didn’t you sign already” were tossed around liberally), but I figured I should take it to a lawyer to make sure Mildew wasn’t trying to fuck us in some way.

Feinstein checked it out as thoroughly as he usually does, and he said it was fine—“nothing objectionable,” he said. “In fact, it’s a suspiciously good offer, all things considered.”

May 20, 2008

Recourse

“You obviously don’t understand,” Feinstein whined. “There is nothing we can do about Mildew.”

“There has to be a way,” I barked.

“I’m the lawyer here, kid. Trust me.”

I didn’t know what to say to him. He’d been my lawyer for over a decade, but his expertise seemed to have slipped over the past few years. Was it time to seek out someone new?

May 26, 2008

Mildew Recording Artists

“We’ve had a change of heart,” I blurted. “We really would like to become officially sanctioned Mildew Recording Artists.”

Dean Charleston’s watery eyes gazed at me, lips forming a hostile smile. “You missed your shot, McDürchstein. We own the Kelleystein label, and although Redstain albums still sell well, especially since Sarah’s unfortunate passing, but will draw attention to the label until the next Abysmal Crucifix release.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Look, I’m not unreasonable,” Charleston sneered. “I know you’re hurting for money.”

“Are you trying to hypnotize me?”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on May 26, 2008 1:27 PM
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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.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 4, 2008 11:14 AM
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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.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 10, 2008 12:51 PM
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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.

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

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 23, 2008 3:53 PM
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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.

July 6, 2008

Weighted Lure

“You’re fat,” Dean Charleston said abrasively.

“I know,” I replied softly. “I’ve been out of the limelight too long… Margo loves me the way I am. So does Perdida.”

“Unfortunately,” Charleston said, “they’re not accurate gauges of what America’s youth wants. There’s a documentary you should see called Bigger, Stronger, Faster. The takeaway from it is that both boys and girls respond to men with ripped abs and bulging biceps. You used to have them. Now you’re a ball of failure and stretchmarks.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Diet and exercise.”

“But—”

“I’ll be sending a dietician and a personal trainer by your apartment this afternoon. Be there.”

I nodded solemnly.

“Dismissed.”

July 15, 2008

Studio Effects

Holy fucking Christ. I can’t tell you guys how nice it is to have Margo back in the studio. It’s a weird thing―none of us really liked Margo. Like, at all. She’s treats us like shit, always gets preferential treatment from Girth, and generally isn’t as great at playing as she’d like us all to think. Girth knows it―we all know it―but hey, not everyone can be Jam Malone. She does what she can.

But I guess I’m just defending her now because Margo Atwater is a breath of fresh air compared to Perdida Cheyenne, who’s worse than incompetent―she’s dumb as a fucking rock and obsessed with the sound of her own voice. I know she’s hot, and I’m sure that’s why men in the entertainment industry “respect” her so much, but come on… Don’t people have to have at least some talent? Like Kathryn Bigelow―she’s quite a looker, but she also directed Point fucking Break. There’s a lot of talent inside that super-hot body. But Perdida? She’s got nothing in her but rhymes and irresponsible AIDS conspiracy theories.

Anyway, now that Perdida’s gone and Margo’s back, we’re actually making some headway with the album. I’m not convinced it’ll be… Oh, what’s the word I’m looking for? Right: good. It may not be good, but at least we’re making a record. And yes, guys, this record will come out.

Written by Carl on July 15, 2008 3:56 PM
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July 21, 2008

For the Record

“Jesus Christ,” I griped, “I just want to write some fucking songs together, as a team.”

“Well, who’s stopping you?” Margo growled.

“You are!” I roared.

“Fuck you, Girth!” she shouted.

The boys’ eyes shifted back and forth, as if watching a tennis match. In the booth, Carlos Ueberschaer looked bored as fuck. I hated doing this in front of them, but what the fuck could I do? Margo decided to show up to help us write. It’s not my fault she can’t stop from being a fucking bitch. Well, okay, it actually is my fault, but I like to keep my private life separate from my work.

“Calm down,” I said softly. “Let’s just quietly work on the next song. Where did we leave off, Riffs?”

Riffs checked his notes. He looked up uneasily and said, “I don’t think we should work on anything new. We should just go over the stuff we’ve written and figure out strengths and weaknesses, you know…”

“Nonsense,” I said. “I’d rather get the whole album done, then time it out and maybe play it live to see what works and what doesn’t. So where are we?”

With a heavy sigh, Riffs said, “‘Lusty Bot,’ in which LIN-9660 discovers Kalos fucking Chery and is so overcome with jealousy, he reports her to the Robot Overlords at GlobalSyn.”

I looked to Margo, who sat in silence, quivering with rage. Smiling weakly, I said, “This is a perfect time to get the emotionality right.”

She leaped to her feet, lunging at my awesome new Kustom amp. Shrieking, Margo plowed her fist right through the fiberglass cabinet case. Billowing smoke followed a thick electronic burp, but it didn’t seem to affect Margo. She stood up, looked mournfully at her bleeding fist, and stamped out of the studio.

“That could have gone better,” Carl observed.

Ignoring him, I stepped into the dark hallway and called after Margo, staring at her shapely ass as she sashayed away. “We could really use your feminist perspective on this…”

Not turning around, she riposted with, “Why don’t you call Perdida fucking Cheyenne for your fucking feminist perspective?”

What the hell do you say to that?

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 21, 2008 3:57 PM
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July 29, 2008

I Write the Songs

Walking into the Paint Shaker this morning, I was shocked to hear odd, foreign sounds emanating from the studio where we’ve holed up to write Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines.’ Since my problems with Margo, Mikey and Carl took it upon themselves to begin writing songs for the album, as if I wouldn’t mind. I entered the studio space, livid, and they clammed up immediately.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Just jamming,” Mikey said.

“Jamming… With lyrics I wrote for Fuck Machines?”

“Mikey actually has some pretty solid ideas, Girth,” Carl said.

“Let me guess: the bass gets a prominent melody while the other instruments get buried in a swirling wall of sound?”

“Uhhh…” Carl responded.

“Look, motherfucker,” Mikey interrupted. “We gotta get this shit done. If you aren’t gonna do it, somebody has to. You don’t have Jam to clean up your messes anymore.”

“Fuck you!” I exclaimed, sounding a bit whinier aloud than it did in my head.

“Good comeback,” Carl said.

“I don’t mean to be a prick,” Mikey said, “but I believe in this project, and I believe in making money off of it, so we have to finish it this time. If that means Carl and I have to write all the songs, so be it. But you have two choices: pull your head out of your ass, beg Margo to take you back, and get both of your asses back in the studio to finish writing the album, or suffer the humiliation of a co-writing credit.”

“Fine,” I snarled. “I’ll see you tomorrow―with Margo!”

As I stormed out of the studio, I heard Carl chuckle and say, “I can’t believe that worked.” I didn’t know what he meant by that.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 29, 2008 3:58 PM
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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.

August 13, 2008

Conflicted

Beaming, I entered the studio. While Mikey and Carl spoke in low whispers and Riffs noodled around on his guitar, Margo glared in my direction from behind her wall of keyboards.

“Where were you last night?” she asked.

“I told you,” I said condescendingly. “Dean Charleston set up a meeting with Vance Sloane.”

“An all-night meeting? You couldn’t even call?”

“Sorry, baby,” I said. “It slipped my mind. We got into a touch-football tournament with some homos down in Huntington. Which, I’d like to point out, is just about the complete opposite of banging Perdida Cheyenne, so get the puss off.”

“You’re in an awfully cheerful mood for a dude who spent an entire night being groped by fags,” Margo growled.

“That’s because I had a burst of inspiration,” I said. “In the car, on the way over here, I came up with the last three Fuck Machines songs. It’s gonna be awesome!”

Without changing her facial expression at all that I could tell, Margo’s glare somehow darkened, making her seem both angrier and more terrifying. I tried to ignore it.

“Let’s rehearse, guys. Recording starts Monday.”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 13, 2008 4:00 PM
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August 18, 2008

Electronica

“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.

August 28, 2008

Studio Shitty

“Why do you have to be such a raging fucking bitchwhore?” I shouted. “I know it’s not ‘cause you’re on your period, so what’s you’re fucking excuse?!” (By the way, I knew this because Margo doesn’t have any eggs, so her gyno thought it would be best if she went on the pill full-time since she’s not dropping any eggs, anyway.)

“My ‘excuse,’” Margo retorted, “is that I’m fucking sick of being married to a man who can’t keep it in his pants!”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it last night!”

“Are you retarded?! Of course I don’t care if you’re fucking me. It’s every other woman in the world I have a problem with.”

“Well, now,” Carl added, “doesn’t that just about sum up the female gender?”

September 24, 2008

Busy Doin’ Somethin’

Hey, guys! It’s Girth. I just wanted to check in a little to let you guys know we’ve been working our asses off on recording Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’, which will be available at retail stores by November. So far, it’s kicking ass! Even though it’s not a double album, I’d consider it our most ambitious album today. Hope you guys dig the new website design.

Peace!

G.McD

Written by Girth McDürchstein on September 24, 2008 1:47 PM
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October 21, 2008

Minor Setback

Okay, guys. Last time we talked, I mentioned that this is our most ambitious album today. I’m not wrong on that. The only problem is, it’s gotten so ambitious, the recording has spiraled out of control. We’re doing a lot with layered guitars/synths and some awesome studio experimentation that’s gonna really kick ass. It’s just taking me and Carlos Ueberschaer (our engineer) a long time to sort through what we’re recording and separate the wheat from the chaff. As a result, we got permission from Mildew to push the release back to January.

We’re also most likely going to put out a tie-in EP that I’m calling Songs from the Fuck Machine, which will fill out the Fuck Machines universe in richer detail than I can accomplish with one LP’s worth of material. Mildew adamantly refuses to put out a double album.

I hate to do this again, but I assure you, this time an album is coming out, and it’s going to kick so much fucking ass.

G.McD

Written by Girth McDürchstein on October 21, 2008 5:06 PM
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December 12, 2008

Fuck Machines — Delayed!

Fans,

We got some bad news. Recording Fuck Machines was going along amazingly…until Girth decided to take part in the Central Valley Celebrity Football Showcase. He tore cartilage in the second-worst possible place, his wrist, the one he uses to play guitar.

Because of this, we have to accept that Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’ will not get out in January. Girth has to wear a wrist splint for at least four weeks, possibly longer. He may even require surgery to heal.

Join us in praying Girth gets better, so everyone can grind along with Fuck Machines.

xoxo
Margo Atwater

Written by Margo Atwater on December 12, 2008 4:05 PM
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February 17, 2009

New Release Date

Hey, folks!

It’s Girth, typing once again, but not for long. I just wanted to let you know we—and by “we,” I mean “Mildew Records”—have a firm date for the release of Fuck Machines. It’ll be out June 23, 2009. Expect a big marketing blitz throughout the month of June in anticipation of its release. We’re hoping to put out a single by April. I’ll keep you posted.

—G.McD

Written by Girth McDürchstein on February 17, 2009 11:28 AM
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