Cliff Notes: We're working on the new album while he shoots movies.
We locked into an undercurrent that we'd been trying to harness for months. It had been whooshing under us like a subway train and all we could do is catch its sick wind through the grates while we tried in vain to coax it off the rails. It finally derailed and we caught it; Pogo's stomach-churning beat, the Hades Symphony Orchestra wailing out of the studio speakers and a diamond dogfight glistening through the carnage like stomped swamp fairies. We hit it all at once and rode it for hours until we'd produced the sound we'd wanted.
He stumbled in late, smelling of the outside world and bearing dubious nourishment in Chinese take out containers. We hadn't eaten since war broke out, but we couldn't tear ourselves away from the console, opting instead to try to fix him in our glassy eyed stares as one of us found the right thing to click to start it all over. Listen, Daddy.
His lip was curled, body language tense like he was caught out right before a proclamation that'd crack the earth's crust, but he listened. He moved fluidly until he was leaning against the console, one hand spidered across the wood, nodding. After a few minutes, he put his hand up and I cut the feed. "Fuck you," he said, smirking. "You nailed it. Almost." He clicked and dragged 2 and 6, squinting, hit it again and this diabolical bowel-dropping bass underlined the best of the beast. The slow smiles crept across our faces, like we'd just planned the perfect murder.
In a way, I guess we had.
I'm biting my lip in anticipation of the yards of sprocketed freeze frames from the test shoot. I'll cut up my fingers trying to make them move, watch the tiny ghost of him being somebody else's someone else. One of these days I'll get a projector. Until then, I'll just take the pale few snips of time we get before his breathing settles into my favorite rhythm and I fall in beside him, wandering his wonderland.
I don't mind missing him. It reminds me of what I know by heart and by heat.
.tim
He stumbled in late, smelling of the outside world and bearing dubious nourishment in Chinese take out containers. We hadn't eaten since war broke out, but we couldn't tear ourselves away from the console, opting instead to try to fix him in our glassy eyed stares as one of us found the right thing to click to start it all over. Listen, Daddy.
His lip was curled, body language tense like he was caught out right before a proclamation that'd crack the earth's crust, but he listened. He moved fluidly until he was leaning against the console, one hand spidered across the wood, nodding. After a few minutes, he put his hand up and I cut the feed. "Fuck you," he said, smirking. "You nailed it. Almost." He clicked and dragged 2 and 6, squinting, hit it again and this diabolical bowel-dropping bass underlined the best of the beast. The slow smiles crept across our faces, like we'd just planned the perfect murder.
In a way, I guess we had.
I'm biting my lip in anticipation of the yards of sprocketed freeze frames from the test shoot. I'll cut up my fingers trying to make them move, watch the tiny ghost of him being somebody else's someone else. One of these days I'll get a projector. Until then, I'll just take the pale few snips of time we get before his breathing settles into my favorite rhythm and I fall in beside him, wandering his wonderland.
I don't mind missing him. It reminds me of what I know by heart and by heat.
.tim