can about engineering records. He memorizes lists of the top engineers, knows all the jargon, understands all the concepts, the mik-ing techniques. It’s his thing.
Lars immediately adopts Dean as his assistant, and they work together setting up the drums, with Dean doing the heavier work—fetching the pieces from Lars’s van. Evan hauls his amp in and places it on a felt-covered wooden box to get it off the ground. He brought his Fender Deluxe tonight, one of the first amps he’d ever gotten and still his favorite. It isn’t very big, but it weighs a ton, and it sounds just how he likes it. He takes his guitar out of its case, a ’68 Stratocaster, and straps it on.
All the while this busy work is going on, and Lars is prattling on about drum mikes and phase cancellation, Evan’s mind begins to wander. He tries to keep everything tight on the music, but his thoughts are scattered. It’s kind of a big deal to make a demo, diminished only slightly by the fact that they’re paying for it themselves instead of having a record company foot the bill. But that’s okay. There’s still plenty of excitement around making music on tape, or on computer, as the case may be. He remembers back in the day, years ago, when Dog Run recorded their album. A month of nonstop work in a cabin up on Dabob Bay, mornings spent scouring the beach for oysters, afternoons spent napping, nights spent working out their songs. And then two weeks of nonstop work in the studio. He was good then, but not as good. He had the energy without the technique. Now he has the technique without the energy. And he didn’t have a reputation back then. He was just himself. Now he’s a hired gun. They brought him in, a ringer, someone with a record, both figuratively and literally. They wanted what he brought them, an instant upgrade at a recording studio, for instance. Maybe someone takes a longer listen to their demo because “that Dog Run guy is on it.”They fired their friend, the guy they grew up with, and brought in Evan, and Evan was expected to produce. And Evan would produce. Pressure? Nah. Pressure is growing up without a father. Pressure is having your mother crushed to death in a high-speed wreck when you’re fourteen years old. What does Evan know of pressure?
He shakes his head quickly from side to side to get himself back into the room. The room. The studio. The session. Now is not the time to get lost in yourself.
Lars stops fiddling with his set and looks up.
“You okay?” he asks from his stool. He’s gnawing at his thumbnail again. It’s best when you let it heal for a few days and then go at it just as it’s scabbing over.
“Yeah.”
“You zoned, man. Where’re Tony and Rod?”
“Dunno.”
What’s the matter? Feeling a little detached, are we?
That mind-body thing again. Dualism again. Evan doesn’t like the concept of dualism. He wants monism. He doesn’t want to feel that his body is just a vehicle for his mind. Because that’s sometimes the first step. That feeling followed by the realization that the world could end tomorrow—doom—and the next thing you know you’re standing in the middle of a big fat seizure with nowhere to go.
He has to have some pot before things go down the wrong road. A few hits should even things out, calm him down, make him forget about the possibilities. He glances around the room. Marijuana and sound studios go hand in hand. All musicians smoke and drink and screw and do all kinds of other illicit shit in a sound studio. Normally, Evan would just whip out his pipe and light it up. But Dean is here. Evan is Dean’s father. Evan has to set some kind of an example. He has to find another place.
“I gotta take a leak, ” Evan says.
“Bleed the lizard, ” Lars says.
“Spank the monkey, ” Dean says.
Lars looks at him crookedly. “‘Spank the monkey?’” he asks. “That’s whacking off. He’s not gonna whack off. You’re not gonna whack off, are you?”
“Not that I
Lars immediately adopts Dean as his assistant, and they work together setting up the drums, with Dean doing the heavier work—fetching the pieces from Lars’s van. Evan hauls his amp in and places it on a felt-covered wooden box to get it off the ground. He brought his Fender Deluxe tonight, one of the first amps he’d ever gotten and still his favorite. It isn’t very big, but it weighs a ton, and it sounds just how he likes it. He takes his guitar out of its case, a ’68 Stratocaster, and straps it on.
All the while this busy work is going on, and Lars is prattling on about drum mikes and phase cancellation, Evan’s mind begins to wander. He tries to keep everything tight on the music, but his thoughts are scattered. It’s kind of a big deal to make a demo, diminished only slightly by the fact that they’re paying for it themselves instead of having a record company foot the bill. But that’s okay. There’s still plenty of excitement around making music on tape, or on computer, as the case may be. He remembers back in the day, years ago, when Dog Run recorded their album. A month of nonstop work in a cabin up on Dabob Bay, mornings spent scouring the beach for oysters, afternoons spent napping, nights spent working out their songs. And then two weeks of nonstop work in the studio. He was good then, but not as good. He had the energy without the technique. Now he has the technique without the energy. And he didn’t have a reputation back then. He was just himself. Now he’s a hired gun. They brought him in, a ringer, someone with a record, both figuratively and literally. They wanted what he brought them, an instant upgrade at a recording studio, for instance. Maybe someone takes a longer listen to their demo because “that Dog Run guy is on it.”They fired their friend, the guy they grew up with, and brought in Evan, and Evan was expected to produce. And Evan would produce. Pressure? Nah. Pressure is growing up without a father. Pressure is having your mother crushed to death in a high-speed wreck when you’re fourteen years old. What does Evan know of pressure?
He shakes his head quickly from side to side to get himself back into the room. The room. The studio. The session. Now is not the time to get lost in yourself.
Lars stops fiddling with his set and looks up.
“You okay?” he asks from his stool. He’s gnawing at his thumbnail again. It’s best when you let it heal for a few days and then go at it just as it’s scabbing over.
“Yeah.”
“You zoned, man. Where’re Tony and Rod?”
“Dunno.”
What’s the matter? Feeling a little detached, are we?
That mind-body thing again. Dualism again. Evan doesn’t like the concept of dualism. He wants monism. He doesn’t want to feel that his body is just a vehicle for his mind. Because that’s sometimes the first step. That feeling followed by the realization that the world could end tomorrow—doom—and the next thing you know you’re standing in the middle of a big fat seizure with nowhere to go.
He has to have some pot before things go down the wrong road. A few hits should even things out, calm him down, make him forget about the possibilities. He glances around the room. Marijuana and sound studios go hand in hand. All musicians smoke and drink and screw and do all kinds of other illicit shit in a sound studio. Normally, Evan would just whip out his pipe and light it up. But Dean is here. Evan is Dean’s father. Evan has to set some kind of an example. He has to find another place.
“I gotta take a leak, ” Evan says.
“Bleed the lizard, ” Lars says.
“Spank the monkey, ” Dean says.
Lars looks at him crookedly. “‘Spank the monkey?’” he asks. “That’s whacking off. He’s not gonna whack off. You’re not gonna whack off, are you?”
“Not that I
Similar Books
