Sunday, 23 November 2008

SESSIONS: Cargo Recording Studios, Rochdale

I' ve always belived in the karmic way. After a good rant, there's always something good about something bad. The Cargo studios (House of De Ocampo) has good room acoustics and the overall sound for a four track recording is almost releaseable by EP standards. We were able to scrounge for available instruments and equipment and was able to fit everything in our hearse of a bat-mobile. Skipping lunch (sleep for me) and was there as early as 11pm only to be met by sleeping bandmates or even someone more interested in his CD collection or so. Well, I'm not the owner of the house. It's not my gasoline in the car. Anyway, I ranted like a cunt long enough (which is 20 minutes) and I'm moving on. Ah yes, the second session. Who would be in-charge? It's definitely not me. I'm retiring my engineering hat right here and giving it to the Martin Hannett wanna-bees. By all means, y'all. That was a 12 hour grind for me through nagging headache and sleeplessness. And believe me it was all worth it. Except for the delays and the stand-up comic sessions, the Manchester band trivia brought to you by crepuscle records. "Remember, if it's not crepuscle it's not even a record". Sarcasm aside, the groundwork is already there. We got a smoky window view of what the "band" sound really is. As they put it, it sounded like "A Certain Ratio". I take credit for that. It's the only thing that went good that night. And for the shit that went through that day it's an achievement of sorts. It's just breaking the surface. We ain't there yet perhaps we could never get there. The future looks so scary. We could end up as a cult band who almost made it but didn't and because we chose not to. Scary thought. I'm liking it already. I won't delete the previous blog. It would serve as a reminder to me. But fook, I like the cult status already.

A Life in Bands (continuation)

I don't fuckin' know how band politics work. I'm the new guy so I have to prove myself, right? Who else is in charge? That's what I'm askin' because after a botched recording session, right now I don't know where I fit. Do we really need a dictator in the band? Do we value respect? Or we just don't give a shit because we are rockstars. Are we getting swellheaded because we think we are a re-incarnation of those ye olde Mancunian bands. Right now, I just want to lay all the tracks on a fuckin tape and play music. I don't give a rats arse on how much useless Manchester trivia are there on my wee brain. I don't care what's playing on my MP3 player. I don't care now how much time searchin for a fuckin rare CD in a garage sale or how extensive my record collection are. Which is a few actually. Very few by rockstar standards. Right now, it's all about music. It's sounds a bit syrupy for a guy with battle scars from playing in different bands. But, I've been in the trenches for so long I don't know which is which. Which direction a band should take. I might been overreacting because respect is often earned and you don't need to say fuck you upfront to actually know it's been thrown at you. Just like fuckin' mustard gas, baby. Thank goodness for a massive headache that saved me from further embarrassment from a recording session where people wanted to be stand-up comedians and post-punk trivia wizards instead of shutting up for 6 minutes or so and just play the goddamn song. I shouldn't be blabbering like a cunt because it ain't my house we're using, not my food I'm serving, and last but not the least it's not my fuckin' money. Maybe we don't deserve to record because our minds are all fucked up. We are a good live band. Bloody, Finger Lickin' Fuckin' good. Probably too good for ourselves. Am I giving up? Fuck, can't wait for the whole new bloody session to start. Next time, without the bear necessities. No food, no aircondiltioning. The trenches. We've turned to fat ego-tistical rockstars. We need to get shittied-up. and yes, I'm not from fuckin' manchester.

I'm from fuckin' Salford. It makes a fuckin' difference.

RIP Martin Hannett, I wish I had a gun too...