“Man, that sounds great,” I said. “Thanks.”
“It was all there. Do me a favor and send me a mix so I can learn the whole song.”
“Sure.”
“You got anything else?”
“Yeah …” I scrolled through my files. “Here’s one I’d like to hear finished.” I double-clicked on it and played his original demo of the minor-key acoustic thing he’d played for me back on that first day in Bozeman. “I’d love to hear this with a full band arrangement. I can totally see it as a slow, grinding, halftime-type thing.”
He thought about it for a while. Finally, he nodded, then he pulled some pages out of his case and cleared a spot on the bed.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s see what we can come up with.…”
30
“Self Esteem”
The Bad-Mobile was still gone when I crashed, but I didn’t worry about it—why was I the designated den mother?
Besides, I was stoked from the progress Glenn and I had made. Yeah, it’s cool to write something by yourself, but there’s nothing like bouncing ideas back and forth with someone else and getting something way better than either of you could have come up with on your own. When it works, it’s magic.
After we’d worked in the room on my tune and his ballad, he brought out three or four other things he’d been working on, in various stages of completion. Some were just rough sketches, but I thought two of them were almost good to go. So we went to the club to try them out—Donna said it was okay for an hour or so, until they opened for the evening.
While Glenn got the PA up and running, I put up a couple of mics out in front and hooked them up to my little laptop studio setup to make a basic live recording. Then we ran through each of the tunes a couple of times, and they actually sounded pretty good. I mean, they weren’t complete by any means, but it was enough to give you the feeling that they could fly.
“Man, that wasn’t a bad day,” Glenn said when we were finished. “We’ve got half a dozen originals whipped into semidecent shape.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I can’t wait to hear how they sound with the whole band playing them, and Brad singing—” I stopped. “Hey, is that okay? I mean, if Brad sings them? After all, most of them are your tunes, and—”
He held up a hand. “Not a problem. I’m the one who always says play to your strengths, and that guy can sing. I’m with you—they’re going to kick ass.”
Hey, Zach, I got your message yesterday. I don’t know what’s goin’ on with Kimber, but she’s pretty upset. Something about that dickhead Kevin … I couldn’t help it—I laughed. But you don’t have to apologize to me, man. I don’t care why you decked him … I’m sure you had a good reason. Hell, him lookin’ like Toby is good enough for me.… There was a long silence.
But you don’t need to apologize, man. That’s all I wanted to say.
Beeeeep …
When I woke up, the Bad-Mobile was in the parking lot, safe and sound.
I wanted to listen to the stuff we’d done but Glenn was still asleep, so I got dressed and grabbed my computer and headed out to the breakfast room. There were people around when I arrived, so I set the music aside and read a little while I ate.
By the time I was finished, the place was empty, so I fired up my laptop to recheck yesterday’s work. You wouldn’t believe how many times something that seems great at the end of a long day turns out to be embarrassing the next morning. But what do you know … it still sounded pretty good. After that, I began working on some lyrics ideas I had.
Anyway, I was still sitting there when Danny and Brad showed up.
“Hey, guys,” I said. “How was the park?”
“Man, it was amazing,” Danny said. “How’s about you—good day yesterday?”
“Yeah. Glenn and I got a few tunes hammered into shape.”
“Cool. Care to share?”
Well, I was supposedly all about full disclosure now, right? “Um, sure, I guess so. They’re still pretty rough, though.”
“That’s okay. Let’s hear ’em.”
I played the live mix of Glenn’s ballad, followed by a little of the “Pray for Rain” remix. Then I stopped—I just wanted to give them a taste.
“That was awesome, bro. Seriously. I can’t wait to try them.”
“Thanks. They really need the whole band’s help, but it’s a good start.”
Brad had been quiet the whole time. Not that there was a law that said he had to comment, but still … I raised my eyebrows a little, doing that well-what-do-you-think thing, in a low-key way.
“Uh, sorry, I’m not quite awake yet,” he finally mumbled. “But yeah, it sounds cool.”
“Thanks. They’ll be much cooler with you singing and everyone playing on them.” That reminded me … “Speaking of—are we gonna sound check sometime today?”
He yawned. “Sorry, it’s still early for me. Uh, I’ll think about it and let you know.”
“Okay. Donna says we can play in there anytime before noon, and then maybe a little window somewhere between three and five. And that’s it.”
His eyes narrowed. “Like I said, I’ll let you know.” He grabbed a pastry and some coffee and left.
I looked at Danny like, WTF? but he just shrugged.
God, was I ever going to break the code on these guys?
Q: WHAT DO YOU GET IF YOU CROSS A DRUMMER WITH A GORILLA?
A: A REALLY STUPID GORILLA …!
“Let’s try it again—that intro sounded a little rushed.” Brad turned and looked back at yours truly.
Rushed? It sure didn’t feel that way to me. In fact, I thought it was right in the pocket. But whatever. “Okay,” I said.
We’d done a quick sound check and were taking advantage of the stage time to work up a couple of new songs. Not the originals—no one had mentioned those and I sure wasn’t going to push that button again. Instead, Brad had a Papa Roach tune he wanted to do, and something by the Killers.
We went through the tune again, and it felt great to me. Danny dug it, too. I could tell because he had that in-the-groove posture going on and a big grin on his face.
“That was better,” Brad said after we’d finished. “But it still seemed a little uneven in parts.” He looked at me. “Hmm. Have you ever played to a click before?”
Where was he going with this? “Uh, yeah,” I said. “We used one in the Sock Monkeys once in a while when we recorded. Why …?”
“Just wondering.” He turned and spoke to everyone. “Okay, that’s probably as good as it’s going to get for now. See you guys at preflight.”
After sound check I checked my email. Okay, I guess I was still hoping for some response from Kimber, but no luck there. Maybe I’d have to get used to the fact that she was done with me.
Shit.
Anyway, there was something for me.…
From: Dandy Don Davis [[email protected]]
Sent: Tuesday, July 20 11:17 AM
To: Wild 107 “Best in West” Artists
Subject: CD Airing
Hey, guys!
Just a quick heads-up to all of you that the Best in the Rockin’ West CD drops next week. (As if you didn’t know, since we’ve been hyping it all summer!) To build some advance promo for it, we’ll be playing it on the air beginning this Thursday night. We’ll play the whole thing at 9:00 PM, then again at midnight, and one more time the next day during Candy’s Lunch Box Special show. After that, we’ll put select cuts into regular rotation, depending on listener response.
So pass the word. Get all your friends to listen to your song on the air, and keep those listener requests coming!
Congrats again to all of you,
Don
Except for Alicia and my parents, I couldn’t really think of anyone who’d give a damn. How freakin’ sad is that?
The gig that night was weird, too. Well, not the gig itself … the venue was real nice—a big room with good sound and lights. And there was a great crowd, maybe the best we’d seen on a T
uesday all summer. Donna was sure right about it being the high season.
But something was messed up. Twice during the evening Brad turned around in the middle of a song and said, “You’re rushing!” And during one of the breaks he commented, “Hey, Zach, your timing’s drifting tonight. You tired or something?”
But I wasn’t tired, and as far as I could tell, my playing was fine. Or at least, up till then I’d thought it was fine. The rest of the night I just did my best to make sure everything was in the pocket.
Q: HOW CAN YOU TELL A DRUMMER’S AT THE DOOR?
A: THE KNOCKING SPEEDS UP
The next night, before preflight, Brad held some papers out to me.
“What’s up?” I said, taking them. They looked like a set list, only with some numbers after each song.
“I guess I was channeling our baby brother and becoming a den mother,” he said with a grin. “Anyway, here are the BPMs for all our songs. So before we start each tune, you can check the tempo with this”—he held up a little electronic metronome—“and we’ll be right where we need to be.” He handed it over. “Just trying to help,” he added.
I wanted to tell him to go to hell, but could I really guarantee that I was always perfect? Not hardly. So I sucked it up and smiled as I took the metronome.
“Thanks, man,” I said. “I’ll give it a shot.”
“Cool.”
Actually, it was anything but cool. The more I thought about holding down the tempo, the more it seemed to slip away. I’d dial up the correct beats per minute, watch the flashing light for a few seconds, then count off the song. And a few bars in, it would feel too slow or too fast. Then the question becomes, do I try to hold the line no matter how much the band is pulling or pushing, or do I go with what feels right and deviate from the “correct” tempo?
I made it through the night, but it wasn’t like playing music. It was more like being back at the yard-supply place, loading trucks in a hot warehouse. And I love drumming.
God, how did something that was so much fun turn into such a drag?
31
“You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid”
If anything, Thursday’s gig started out even worse. First of all, it was Kimber’s birthday. She had to have gotten my present by now, but of course I didn’t hear anything. And I sure wasn’t going to call her, after she’d made it so clear that she wasn’t interested. So I tried to forget about it and get on with my day. (Yeah, right. I wandered around town—a gorgeous place—but I couldn’t tell you a single thing I saw.) By the time the gig rolled around, I wasn’t exactly a bundle of joy.
Usually a gig will pick me up if I’ve had a crappy day, but I sure wasn’t looking forward to another show like last night’s.
Okay, whatever. I tried to quit feeling sorry for myself and spent the first set just concentrating on looking at the little blinking light and trying to keep things on the money. And it worked about as well as it had the night before. In other words, not.
What really bugged me was that—at least up until this week—things had been going great, music-wise. And now supposedly I didn’t really know how to play in time anymore? What the hell?
During the first break I pulled Glenn aside. “Look,” I said, “this metronome crap isn’t working. I mean, I gave it a fair shot, but …” I stopped and looked him in the eye. “Okay, straight up—do I suck? Have I lost it or something?”
He shook his head. “What sucks is that you even have to ask.”
“Well, something must be off if Brad’s so concerned about it.”
He just looked at me for a second. “Go get your set list and the metronome.”
I ran and grabbed them, and he looked at the list and said, “Okay, start tapping out the tempo for ‘Charlotte.’ ”
So I did. He listened to me for a second, kinda looking up into the corner of his eye and bopping his head along, then he nodded. “That’s perfect.” He checked it with the metronome. “About one-fifty.” Then he checked the list. It said 142. We quickly went through a bunch of other songs. Some of them were close to what the list said, but at least half of them varied, by up to a dozen BPM in some cases. God, no wonder it felt like the band kept wanting to push or pull.…
“So …?” I asked when we were done.
“Did you ever ask him where he got his starting tempos for this list?”
I shook my head.
“Well,” he said, “I’d guess he either took them from the original songs, or he just sat down and went with whatever felt good to him at the moment. But neither of those is necessarily the way we play them onstage.”
“So how does that help me?” I was more frustrated than ever. “I mean, forget the theory—I’ve got to get up there and play in a few minutes, and I’m dreading it.”
“Man, I’m really sorry about this bullshit … I guess I haven’t been paying much attention lately. My bad. But this actually told us everything we need to know.”
“Which is …?”
“Which is that you and I agree about the correct tempo in every case. And if you called Danny over here, I promise he’d agree, too. In other words, you’re fine. Hell, you’re way beyond fine—you always were. Just trust yourself.”
“Yeah, well … thanks. But none of that solves this.” I held up the metronome.
He took it from me. “Oh, that’s just a simple adjustment.” He set it on the ground. “We just need to tweak this control right here”—he put the heel of his boot on it and applied pressure—“until we get the right setting”—something went crack—“and voilà, it’s perfect!” He handed it back and checked his watch, then gave me a poker face. “What do you know—time’s up.”
We went back onstage and I tried to play without worrying so much. And for the first time all week I actually had a good time onstage. The other guys seemed to be feeling it, too—Danny had his happy face on again, and the floor was full most of the night with people dancing and getting into it.
Once or twice Brad tried to question the tempo. The first time he suggested I was off, I just shrugged and said, “It seemed okay to me.”
Then later on during the third set he turned and looked back at me after we’d finished “Holographic Train,” by Refuge. “Hey, man, are you positive that was where it was supposed to be? I sure thought it dragged.…”
Oh God, not again. “Nope, it was fine.”
“Did you check tempo?”
“I think I know how the song goes.”
“Hey, I told you I wanted you to check each song! And now you’re telling me—”
I stood up and threw him the metronome. “I’m telling you that song was right on the freakin’ money, dude!”
He caught it and looked at it. “What happened to—”
Glenn walked over to him. “I turned it off.…”
“What the hell?”
Glenn moved closer to him, and even though he kept his voice low, I could still hear. He was seriously angry, big-time. “What’s your problem, man? His playing is fine.”
“Of course you’re gonna say that,” Brad shot back. “He was your choice. I think he’s getting lazy and sloppy, and he needs to pay more attention. Nate never played like that.”
“You’re right—Nate was never this solid.”
“You’re full of shit. This kid’s all over the map, time-wise.…”
I’d had enough. I looked over at Danny, who’d missed this little exchange because he’d been getting a water bottle from the side of the stage. “Hey, Danny!” I yelled. The other guys stopped their argument and looked over.
Danny turned. “Yo, what’s up?”
“How’d that last song feel to you?”
He looked around, clearly surprised by the question, and shrugged. “It felt good.”
“How was my playing? You know … tempo, volume, timing, whatever …?”
“Perfect, bro—you’re nailing it big-time.” He grinned. “I’ve had a big ol’ groove-woody all night.”
I turned bac
k to Brad and held my hands out wide like, Pretty hard to argue with that. Then I just stared at him for a minute. Not full-on mad-dogging it, but I’m sure he caught my vibe. I noticed people in the crowd looking at us, too.
“Let’s play.…” I sat back down.
The rest of the gig I just ignored Brad and locked in with Danny and Glenn and Jamie and grooved as hard as I could, slammin’ away but keeping things in the pocket.
Brad took off right after we were done, so I tried to get some answers from Glenn. “What the hell’s going on?” I asked. “Everything seemed fine for the past month, and now he isn’t happy with my playing?”
“I’m pretty sure—” He stopped himself. I waited. Nada.
“Finish your thought, man.”
“I’m pretty sure this has nothing to do with your playing.”
Q: WHY IS A DRUM MACHINE BETTER THAN A DRUMMER?
A: BECAUSE IT KEEPS GOOD TIME AND WON’T SLEEP WITH YOUR GIRLFRIEND.
“Can I get an honest answer about something?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Those are mighty hard to come by around here these days.”
Hmm …
We were hanging in the club after the gig. It was sort of like after the final gig in Butte, but there were still people in the place, there was music playing, and we were drinking cokes instead of coffee … laced or otherwise.
“I’m just trying to figure out what’s up with Brad,” I said. “He’s getting more and more critical of my playing.”
“Have you asked him?”
I almost laughed, but I stopped myself. “Yeah, I tried. But he just gives me some story about trying to help me be a better musician.”
“Is there any chance that maybe that’s it?”
“Well, you tell me—is there something wrong with my playing?”
She held her hands up. “You know, I really don’t want to get in the middle of all this.…”
“I think you pretty much already are.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Brad hasn’t told me anything other than what he’s told you. Personally, I just think he has a lot going on.…” She took a drink from her coke. “He feels a lot of responsibility for the band … for keeping us booked up and working and so on. He takes it pretty seriously.”
Road Rash Page 20