It was to be three days of harmonious conclave. A single care was all that mattered—music. A “live” recording session in the Soquel Mountains. No boundaries ‘cept one—technology.

We plotted a half-day for patching, booting, miking, tuning, and right-clicking (presumptuous, I know). Then, with a vaporizer for a producer, we would lay down tracks in the form of well-rehearsed songs and inspired jams. Then, a few days to recover the lost obligations of our lost weekend before privately doing overdubs naked and at home (just like the pros). After that, a final communion back at the rehearsal space for the mix down.

Personally, I only brought four guitars and five guitar stands. The extra guitar stand was an oversight, but I hoped that maybe it was a sign we’d be doing lots of odd time signatures. Along with my impractically beautiful amp with the great tone, a small bushel of pedals, and enough cables to strap down the Cardiff Giant, these guitars would be my voice, and, god willing, my expression of love, life, hate, and death, with a dash of silly thrown in to keep from acting like a cursed genius. I hate when that happens (though usually in hindsight).

The first good feeling from day one came early and was familiar—unpacking the guitars, tuning, warming, and placing them in a stand of their choosing. At home, most of my guitars hang on the wall; only one regularly gets pulled down to play. My main axe, finally getting broken in after its quadruple bypass and waxing, is usually in its case, primed for performance like a loaded weapon in an NRA nut job’s closet.      

The last good feeling from day one was more than 12 hours later and was also familiar. It was the feeling of exhaustion and an unenthusiastic victory—we had finally beaten the technology into sort of working so we could record something. The victory was hollow because we had lost the day.

When we decided we needed to record what we’ve written, we figured that, between us and our favors, we had access to some really great gear. Think of the money we would save! No pressure. Keep it in the family, drag it to the bass player’s house and make it a sleepover, the singer will make sandwiches with the crusts cut off and everything! And oh, the noise, the noise—we’ll shriek squeals and squeals racing round on our strings, and we’ll dance with jingtinglers tied to our things. We’ll blow our floofloovers, and bang our tartookas, and—what’s that? The floofloover won’t get out of S/MUX, cutting our lightpipe to the tartookas in half—that sucks. Well, that’s not part of my delusion. Reboot the 24-bit gardookas—that will probably do the trick! 

In the end, no amount of whamming our whowonkas would solve the problem.

Believe it or not, the above actually translates into a sample rate issue between two boxes cutting our multi-track count in half. Instead of 16 tracks, we now had an emasculating eight. That’s a pretty radical change in plans, which meant one thing—take all the mics away from the drums except two. (He’s a drummer, he may not even notice.) And then, being altruistic, I will only close-mic my amp, and, of course, go direct.

With our compromise agreed upon, we spent the remainder of day one re-miking, re-patching, and re-labeling. It was some time before midnight that we made music, playing a couple songs to make sure the newly diminished setup worked. Good thing we had beer and stuff.

I didn’t spend the night; I went home in the early morning hours beat, unsatisfied, and bummed.

The next day I awoke eager to recapture what was lost. My body felt otherwise. It felt as if I had been shuffling and bending over gear all day. It’s the same feeling you get the morning after moving into a new place after getting kicked out of a place you really liked. Showered, vertical, and caffeinated, I petted the house, locked up the dog, and headed back toward my goal.

I arrived at the bass player’s house to learn he had stayed up until three in the morning uploading firmware and new drivers into all the ‘ookas. The result—we had all our channels back. The drummer would get back all his mics and tracks, and I mine. We would recover fully, minus the unbridled joy and enthusiasm. 

Yay.

But first we had to re-mic, re-patch, and re-label everything a third time. And then, hopefully, finally, play.

This Sunday morning re-re-setup took considerable effort and was exasperated by the fact that, at this point, we, drawn together over music (not technology), were in a hurry to get back to our original purpose. So we didn’t label things properly, crossing our trumtookas with our great big electro whocarnio snooks. That‘ll leave a mark, let me tell ya.

In the end, the virtuous act of making a record of something momentary was seriously compromised by several billion zeroes and ones refusing to line up and march properly. The most expensive gear failed more catastrophically than the more common stuff. We ended up getting all the songs done, but having to double the amount of overdubs we now have to do. I find myself considering scrapping the project for fear it is imbibed with some sort of techno-curse that will act as a poltergeist toward all work that comes after. Maybe we should pony the dough for an engineer and studio where the painful experience of making gear play nice together was resolved long ago. It’s a reasonable constraint, studio time. Get in, get down, walk away with a hard drive full of zeroes and ones that constitute our version of working class music. That’s all we have to show now—highly choreographed static on little metal disks inside a tightly sealed chassis. No tape, no paper, no gigantic jar with a lid you unscrew to hear power chords and drum fills. Really, nothing more than a conundrum of quantum physics. The belief that the music is in the box, I just can’t open the box to show you. If I did, it would no longer be there. You’ll have to trust me. God, I sound like an investment banker. 

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The Slacker Surge

Questions More Than Answers

Crybaby, Cry (Old Enough to Know Better)