3 Days, 596 Things
Another fine day behind us, one which saw the likely end of all non-guitar-or-vocals overdubs. After a delightful breakfast of bacon and eggs, and then a quick jaunt out to Fred Meyer to purchase a whole sack's worth of only embarrassing bathroom items, I met the boys at Prexy, intending to slather on some sexy-ass piano overdubs. To my amazement, I was met nearly at the door by the half-smiling, half-sneering countenance of Ginny Hancock, who has moved into Prexy for the summer while the fourth floor of Eliot undergoes renovation of some kind. She graciously allowed us to stay in Prexy for as long as we needed, pending Bonnie's approval (which we eventually got), and was even kind enough to loan us a power strip: an act of magnaminity almost completely nullified by Greg's unforseeable near-catastrophe of walking in on her in the bathroom. Whoops.
Anyway, sexy-ass piano overdubs, which I played a whole lot better than I was expecting, were enjoyed, on PS, Unwater, and Welcome Home; I also laid down some of my thickest slabs of free-form nonsense to date on Arab Fiesta, which Chris has been afforded license to screw with all he wants, Martin Swope style. All of that should turn out swell.
After a quick lunch at Woodstock Wine & Deli and some editing/picking up slides/playing Gamecube time, we trekked out to Gregory Heights for what we expect to be the last time, and tracked some mbira on PS, courtesy of Cary, and some trombone on everywhere, courtesy of Ethan, who, it should be noted, fucking rocks on the trombone. With our intentions of starting early tomorrow made clear, we headed home, and everyone enjoyed a slice of pie except me, because I hadn't (and still haven't) yet confronted the prospect of dinner. And start early we shall, as tomorrow shakes us loose from the fool's paradise of Gregory Heights and sends us careening back into the cosmic nausea of the practice space, where one must arrive early if one hopes to a.) track audio without the interference of adjacent rocking/screaming/carpentry/general rabble, and b.) avoid the management, who, despite doing a wonderful job managing, in all practical respects, happens to live there and always be drunk (too drunk for genuine comic effect) and tell endless stories in the manner of a four-year-old which, I'm afraid, are rather distracting from any tasks you may be hoping to undertake. Guitars and vocals, then mixing, and we be done, mama.
Anyway, sexy-ass piano overdubs, which I played a whole lot better than I was expecting, were enjoyed, on PS, Unwater, and Welcome Home; I also laid down some of my thickest slabs of free-form nonsense to date on Arab Fiesta, which Chris has been afforded license to screw with all he wants, Martin Swope style. All of that should turn out swell.
After a quick lunch at Woodstock Wine & Deli and some editing/picking up slides/playing Gamecube time, we trekked out to Gregory Heights for what we expect to be the last time, and tracked some mbira on PS, courtesy of Cary, and some trombone on everywhere, courtesy of Ethan, who, it should be noted, fucking rocks on the trombone. With our intentions of starting early tomorrow made clear, we headed home, and everyone enjoyed a slice of pie except me, because I hadn't (and still haven't) yet confronted the prospect of dinner. And start early we shall, as tomorrow shakes us loose from the fool's paradise of Gregory Heights and sends us careening back into the cosmic nausea of the practice space, where one must arrive early if one hopes to a.) track audio without the interference of adjacent rocking/screaming/carpentry/general rabble, and b.) avoid the management, who, despite doing a wonderful job managing, in all practical respects, happens to live there and always be drunk (too drunk for genuine comic effect) and tell endless stories in the manner of a four-year-old which, I'm afraid, are rather distracting from any tasks you may be hoping to undertake. Guitars and vocals, then mixing, and we be done, mama.
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