InsaniKey 2
31 (Focus)
“It’s good enough.” I said angrily.
Through the glass on the other side of the room I saw him stand up, his chair flying backward rapidly as his hand mashed the button allowing me to hear the mixing board side of the recording studio. “Did I fucking say it was good enough?”
He paused.
I knew better than to answer, so I bowed my head and placed my drumsticks on my lap.
He looked around the room as though the others were around to hear the lecture I was about to receive. “Have you ever heard me say it was good enough?!” He yelled.
The yelling didn’t startle me, the adrenalin fused edge in his voice didn’t startle me, I’ve paradiddled a snare drum until my hands were covered in blood, numbed to the pain and that didn’t faze me. These moments in the studio where we have a lapse in judgement on what it takes to make a successful song are what disconcert me because it proves we’re human after all.
“I mean, no.” I shrugged honestly, attempting to make eye contact. It didn’t work; we were on a different level. He was the best producer in the industry and the most notorious to work with. I was tired, hungry and possibly feeling trapped in a small dark room which possibly reminded me of other things but it wasn’t a good time to let my mind wander. It wasn’t the time to feel or exist; it was time to shut my brain off and let muscle memory take over.
A wide grin had set in upon his face. Maybe from his end of the glass he could see the lecture taking place in my head of a disciplined musician breaking down. Maybe he knew I was questioning how the process went when the other guys came in to record their parts of the same songs we were tracking. Maybe he knew that I knew there was no way he’d say things that I had to sit through hearing when both the guitarists were in this room. I’m sure he knew I wanted to throw my drumsticks across the room and shatter the glass with them, maybe rimshot one of the sticks at just the right angle and use the splintered remains to take my eyes out, carve my heart out of my chest and hand it to him right there. Would that be enough? It’s not music at this point, when you break it down to the rhythm, the timing or lack thereof, the fact that your producer knows the difference between filler and you subconsciously skipping daily practice at home because you wanted to just relax and live your life for a while.
“You haven’t been practicing daily.” He said.
Oh here we go.
“Do you know how much you’re paying me to listen to this bullshit right now?” He lowered his voice.
Honestly I could probably figure it out but I don’t really want to.
He tells me that if I’d practiced as much as I should, I would be able to come in, lay my contribution to these tracks down and leave. He tells me that’s how other bands do it and names a string of other bands I love, admire, and right now want to maim because they’re apparently perfect and I’m…
“I need you to focus.” He pulls the chair from behind him back to the mixing board and pauses for a long time.
I take this pause in time and pick up my sticks automatically holding them the proper way, then twirl them around a few times because this is how I think. I regroup the thoughts in my head, or try to sort through them. Pugs, llamas, dinosaurs? Bills, beaches, that time I had a hand of 20, said ‘hit me’ and got an ace…if I could luck out on blackjack why couldn’t I luck out on this? Why couldn’t I come in and perfectly time out every single part of this song myself? Why couldn’t I produce this stuff, I mean how hard can it be?
“Focus.” He says again, his voice a faded background noise.
I recall that manager at that shitty job who told me, “Do you know what focus stands for?” He’d walked around saying it to everybody for months even when the situation didn’t apply to us. He was forever telling us to focus and I never knew why until that moment. “Fuck Off, Cuz Ur Stupid.” He said and we laughed but I never forgot it.
I looked up through the glass again, he was ignoring me. I couldn’t focus, I was thinking too much. The timing in one of my favorite songs uses 11/8 timing and it’s still some kind of dark mathematics juju to me. You have to be on a different level to play the right way. But there isn’t a right way to play here; these songs don’t even exist yet. I should be the one that gets to time them.
“Focus.” He says again.
I close my eyes and think for a moment, everything darkens and the noise in my head stops. I feel my heart beat in my chest, hear myself breathe in and out and then she pops into my head. What had she said to me?
“My favorite band, ever.” She repeats in my memory.
I wonder what she’s doing right now. I wonder if she’s sitting at a computer typing a batshit crazy fanfic, or sitting in a classroom getting yelled at by somebody who thinks she has a hard time focusing too. I wonder if my music really has inspired people to help themselves live up to their potential, and why can’t I live up to mine?
I stop twirling the sticks around and rap the tip against the snare attempting to play something, anything that my brain comes up with but at this point garbage is flying carelessly out of my wrists. This isn’t what I trained for and I’m ready to give up.
Close my eyes again straighten my spine, feet resting on floor pedals and I’ve stopped playing by now. Another one of my favorite songs starts out with what feels like a million bass drum beats, followed by my favorite beat. I could play it forever and sometimes when I don’t want to play anything it’s all I play over and over until time stops mattering. So I play the song, even though it’s not mine and by the end of the song I’m okay again.
“That was perfect.” He claps on the other side of the glass. “But that band has a drummer, and you’re not him.”
I laugh and shake my head, now in my zone and nothing he says to me matters because my brain is off and I’m free to play without limits.
Through the glass on the other side of the room I saw him stand up, his chair flying backward rapidly as his hand mashed the button allowing me to hear the mixing board side of the recording studio. “Did I fucking say it was good enough?”
He paused.
I knew better than to answer, so I bowed my head and placed my drumsticks on my lap.
He looked around the room as though the others were around to hear the lecture I was about to receive. “Have you ever heard me say it was good enough?!” He yelled.
The yelling didn’t startle me, the adrenalin fused edge in his voice didn’t startle me, I’ve paradiddled a snare drum until my hands were covered in blood, numbed to the pain and that didn’t faze me. These moments in the studio where we have a lapse in judgement on what it takes to make a successful song are what disconcert me because it proves we’re human after all.
“I mean, no.” I shrugged honestly, attempting to make eye contact. It didn’t work; we were on a different level. He was the best producer in the industry and the most notorious to work with. I was tired, hungry and possibly feeling trapped in a small dark room which possibly reminded me of other things but it wasn’t a good time to let my mind wander. It wasn’t the time to feel or exist; it was time to shut my brain off and let muscle memory take over.
A wide grin had set in upon his face. Maybe from his end of the glass he could see the lecture taking place in my head of a disciplined musician breaking down. Maybe he knew I was questioning how the process went when the other guys came in to record their parts of the same songs we were tracking. Maybe he knew that I knew there was no way he’d say things that I had to sit through hearing when both the guitarists were in this room. I’m sure he knew I wanted to throw my drumsticks across the room and shatter the glass with them, maybe rimshot one of the sticks at just the right angle and use the splintered remains to take my eyes out, carve my heart out of my chest and hand it to him right there. Would that be enough? It’s not music at this point, when you break it down to the rhythm, the timing or lack thereof, the fact that your producer knows the difference between filler and you subconsciously skipping daily practice at home because you wanted to just relax and live your life for a while.
“You haven’t been practicing daily.” He said.
Oh here we go.
“Do you know how much you’re paying me to listen to this bullshit right now?” He lowered his voice.
Honestly I could probably figure it out but I don’t really want to.
He tells me that if I’d practiced as much as I should, I would be able to come in, lay my contribution to these tracks down and leave. He tells me that’s how other bands do it and names a string of other bands I love, admire, and right now want to maim because they’re apparently perfect and I’m…
“I need you to focus.” He pulls the chair from behind him back to the mixing board and pauses for a long time.
I take this pause in time and pick up my sticks automatically holding them the proper way, then twirl them around a few times because this is how I think. I regroup the thoughts in my head, or try to sort through them. Pugs, llamas, dinosaurs? Bills, beaches, that time I had a hand of 20, said ‘hit me’ and got an ace…if I could luck out on blackjack why couldn’t I luck out on this? Why couldn’t I come in and perfectly time out every single part of this song myself? Why couldn’t I produce this stuff, I mean how hard can it be?
“Focus.” He says again, his voice a faded background noise.
I recall that manager at that shitty job who told me, “Do you know what focus stands for?” He’d walked around saying it to everybody for months even when the situation didn’t apply to us. He was forever telling us to focus and I never knew why until that moment. “Fuck Off, Cuz Ur Stupid.” He said and we laughed but I never forgot it.
I looked up through the glass again, he was ignoring me. I couldn’t focus, I was thinking too much. The timing in one of my favorite songs uses 11/8 timing and it’s still some kind of dark mathematics juju to me. You have to be on a different level to play the right way. But there isn’t a right way to play here; these songs don’t even exist yet. I should be the one that gets to time them.
“Focus.” He says again.
I close my eyes and think for a moment, everything darkens and the noise in my head stops. I feel my heart beat in my chest, hear myself breathe in and out and then she pops into my head. What had she said to me?
“My favorite band, ever.” She repeats in my memory.
I wonder what she’s doing right now. I wonder if she’s sitting at a computer typing a batshit crazy fanfic, or sitting in a classroom getting yelled at by somebody who thinks she has a hard time focusing too. I wonder if my music really has inspired people to help themselves live up to their potential, and why can’t I live up to mine?
I stop twirling the sticks around and rap the tip against the snare attempting to play something, anything that my brain comes up with but at this point garbage is flying carelessly out of my wrists. This isn’t what I trained for and I’m ready to give up.
Close my eyes again straighten my spine, feet resting on floor pedals and I’ve stopped playing by now. Another one of my favorite songs starts out with what feels like a million bass drum beats, followed by my favorite beat. I could play it forever and sometimes when I don’t want to play anything it’s all I play over and over until time stops mattering. So I play the song, even though it’s not mine and by the end of the song I’m okay again.
“That was perfect.” He claps on the other side of the glass. “But that band has a drummer, and you’re not him.”
I laugh and shake my head, now in my zone and nothing he says to me matters because my brain is off and I’m free to play without limits.
I ask myself, why does always something happens to them in the first part and why does CC always wake ups o often in a room on the first Floor?
6/21/16