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09 september 2000
5,4,3,2,1 And it was morning... Well, 2am, to be precise. Suffice to say I'm happy that this week is finally over. ...and I found myself mourning. Well, not really, but it's not as if I have any reason to be ecstatic, either. ~~~ The TV show taping was a learning experience. I'd like to leave it at that, but I won't. I left a rather unproductive day of work at 3pm ... an unproductive day that started with a message to my ex-boss telling him in no uncertain terms that when I finish this website of his tomorrow, our working relationship is over. It felt good ... freeing in a way. The man should never have been managing me anyway -- you cannot manage that which you have absolutely no comprehension of. But enough about that. We met at the studio at 4:30 and loaded up the truck. I carpooled with Angel, her still minus the contact lens that her husband swallowed. Mojo and Ice Fairy were in the backseat, acting like children, which was excusable for Ice Fairy, being nine years old and all. In Mojo's case, he was acting like a five year old, and the vibe alternated between entertaining and profoundly annoying. He's an incredible guitar player, so I just let it slide, although by the end of the trip it was evident that even my cute little "girlfriend" was losing her patience with him. (note to self: remember to remind Mojo that screaming out the window to other drivers on an LA freeway during rush hour is a good way to get shot) We got to the TV studio at around 5:30. Set-up and sound check were a breeze. Everything was too easy, and we were way too confident. Wamba wired the PA with one mix going to our monitors and another directly to videotape. It was a small room, just the band and three cameras on huge rolling tripods. When I saw the lighting comps on the monitors I reflected to myself how cheesy we looked, and I mean that in the best sense, like the Beatles on Ed Sullivan, or the Partridge Family in one of their "it's the last five minutes of the show" performances, or even the Monkees. The whole effect, as produced, had a very 1960's psyhedelic vibe to it. We ran through Take One, and it was perfect. Just as we were about to unplug, the technicians came to tell us that we needed to run it again -- the vocals were just a bit too hot on the tape. So they turned IceDog down. Unfortunately, they forgot to turn _me_ down as well. Take Two turned out beautifully, with the exception of my booming basso "Oh Yeah" intermittantly making us sound like something off the "Ferris Bueller" soundtrack. The TV people thought it sounded great. As for us, we took a VHS copy of the tape with us and we're going to re-record the entire audio in our own studio next week. After that, we'll return to the TV studio and record the "interview" portion of the show. As for me, I sat in the green room feeling guilty that I had fucked the whole thing up by singing too loud. In reality, there was nothing I could have done. The mix in the studio was such that I couldn't hear myself. The mix going to tape, however, had me so loud and distorted that I sounded like a cross between Darth Vader and the late Sam Kinison. On the bright side, we have some fabulous video. Furthermore, the whole debacle, as fucked up as it was, brought me a bit back down to earth after the artifically induced and overcaffeinated panic symptoms so unromantically described in my last entry. As if that makes any friggin' sense... From the TV studio I went to Shabbat dinner with Fritz and his family. It was a relaxing and fitting conclusion to the week. We drank vodka, had a long overdue conversation about everything and nothing, and I finally found myself unwinding. Driving home through Malibu Canyon, life didn't seem as overwhelming as it did so recently as yesterday. Things seem more in perspective, and I accept that everything, good and bad, happens for a valid reason, however trite that may sound. All night, I've been so looking forward to the simple pleasure of sleeping late and relaxing tomorrow (or later this morning). And sunday (um, that would be tomorrow), heading over to Wamba's to BBQ and work on my new song in his MIDI studio... The new song ... it's complete in my mind. It's called "Shake," and it's the most personal lyric I've ever written (or 3/4-written, in this case -- all the music and half the lyrics are done). In reality, I already know it's my best song. I can't wait to hear it once it gets out of my head. Tomorrow. Sleep first, then song. I could happily live that sequence. Add sex and I'd be complete. Hardly, just horny. But that's not a bad thing, either. (today's picture is more recent, from the Roxy gig on the 30th ... a lousy shot for three reasons: i) i'm looking down (literally as well as figuratively), not smiling -- why does the camera always catch me looking morose, ii) it makes me consider shaving my chest hair -- yeah, let's not go there, iii) i cut myself shaving (my face) that night and angel insisted on putting cover-up on the cut, and the shitty makeup is showing as a light streak just behind the hairline on my upper neck) 09 september 1999: : didn't write 09 september 1998: what's my number : All we seem to do when I'm in NJ is go to nudie bars. Of course, there really isn't much else to do in NJ ... [ swim back | email me | swim ahead ] |
