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Malicious Wakizashi · 10-19-2009, 11:44 AM

Studio Argument

“No, its supposed to go buddu-bu-buddu-bu-buddu-bu on the tom-tom's, then the snare,” Lary dares command me.
“That's conventional. Besides you don't tell me the way to play it. You're the rookie. Listen...” I start an improvised drum fill, “hear that? When you hear the meter jump start your harmonic progression. Again, from the top,” I say, rolling my sticks off the drums, turning into a spider spinning a web. My arms strike nimbly, calculatedly, the drums. Dave grins plucking the double bass behind amaranthine shades, dressed in a Canadian suit; however, it doesn't compare to my hip striped turtleneck and leather vest.
“Wha-wha-chiki. Wha-wha-chiki. Wha-wha—”
Dave scolds Lary before I can “damn it, Lary, we're not a reggea band, cut that out,” he says, “you're on my nerves, tread lightly.” We start up again, and again the music ebbs me into that zone. Spinning my web, spinning my web.
“Duuuh, duuuh, dun-dunnu-dun-dun, dun-dunnu-dun-dun-duuuh,” for ****'s sake, I think, smashing my Custom Power Ride Cymbal with my right arm. George, our manager, leaning on the marble top, getting close to the mike in the glass pane separating the recording and mixing studio, asks “what's up, guys, you trying something new? This isn't really the sound we agreed on,” he drones as I go to the vending machine. Dave follows me, “what's up?” He asks.
“Can't you see? He's doing this on purpose, this dude's got no sensibility. He just does whatever the **** he wants, where did we find him? I can't even remember,” I tell Dave.
“It was that bar on Western. Remember? He said he'd played with the Blazing Buckaneers, Watch for Flying Jazz, and the North East Space Invasion,” Dave says.
“Oh yeah I do remember that. Well he was full of ****, I'm surprised he could play the material we gave him at rehearsal.”
“What's up, guys?” Lary asks. Dave looks at me looking at the tiled floor and waits for me to say what's on my mind, but I feel like punching rather than talking so I don't speak.
“Look... you're just not playing it the way we want it. It's interfering with our vision. Get out,” Dave says, “it's obvious you've lied to us from the start. Take your **** and get out.”
“I'll try harder. I thought I played it right I swear,” Lary pleads, “just gimme one more chance.”
“No, not an option. You bluffed through our auditions but you spat on the sound you know we're engineering. You can try your spiel elsewhere,” Dave coarsely refutes.
“Look guys I didn't mean it. My foot slipped during the recording and hit the wrong pedal. I thought it sounded alright. I'm sorry,” says Lary.

10-19-2009, 11:44 AM	#48 (permalink)
Malicious Wakizashi Music Addict Join Date: Apr 2008 Posts: 203	Studio Argument “No, its supposed to go buddu-bu-buddu-bu-buddu-bu on the tom-tom's, then the snare,” Lary dares command me. “That's conventional. Besides you don't tell me the way to play it. You're the rookie. Listen...” I start an improvised drum fill, “hear that? When you hear the meter jump start your harmonic progression. Again, from the top,” I say, rolling my sticks off the drums, turning into a spider spinning a web. My arms strike nimbly, calculatedly, the drums. Dave grins plucking the double bass behind amaranthine shades, dressed in a Canadian suit; however, it doesn't compare to my hip striped turtleneck and leather vest. “Wha-wha-chiki. Wha-wha-chiki. Wha-wha—” Dave scolds Lary before I can “damn it, Lary, we're not a reggea band, cut that out,” he says, “you're on my nerves, tread lightly.” We start up again, and again the music ebbs me into that zone. Spinning my web, spinning my web. “Duuuh, duuuh, dun-dunnu-dun-dun, dun-dunnu-dun-dun-duuuh,” for **'s sake, I think, smashing my Custom Power Ride Cymbal with my right arm. George, our manager, leaning on the marble top, getting close to the mike in the glass pane separating the recording and mixing studio, asks “what's up, guys, you trying something new? This isn't really the sound we agreed on,” he drones as I go to the vending machine. Dave follows me, “what's up?” He asks. “Can't you see? He's doing this on purpose, this dude's got no sensibility. He just does whatever the he wants, where did we find him? I can't even remember,” I tell Dave. “It was that bar on Western. Remember? He said he'd played with the Blazing Buckaneers, Watch for Flying Jazz, and the North East Space Invasion,” Dave says. “Oh yeah I do remember that. Well he was full of , I'm surprised he could play the material we gave him at rehearsal.” “What's up, guys?” Lary asks. Dave looks at me looking at the tiled floor and waits for me to say what's on my mind, but I feel like punching rather than talking so I don't speak. “Look... you're just not playing it the way we want it. It's interfering with our vision. Get out,” Dave says, “it's obvious you've lied to us from the start. Take your ** and get out.” “I'll try harder. I thought I played it right I swear,” Lary pleads, “just gimme one more chance.” “No, not an option. You bluffed through our auditions but you spat on the sound you know we're engineering. You can try your spiel elsewhere,” Dave coarsely refutes. “Look guys I didn't mean it. My foot slipped during the recording and hit the wrong pedal. I thought it sounded alright. I'm sorry,” says Lary. __________________ . ..a love sour ... ..a diesel supreme http://soundcloud.com/stoondtje-jupiter http://soundcloud.com/couldnthaveaparadesoimad Last edited by Malicious Wakizashi; 10-24-2009 at 10:18 PM.