Up All Night

Since the band's lineup changed drastically, we decided it was time for a new recording. The backstory: We're a "cover band," meaning we play mostly mainstream songs that veer across genres, hoping to please most people most of the time. It's the soundtrack to drinking, fried food and hookups. I'm not saying this disparagingly--it's a blast to play in front of people. I've figured out that I seek attention, and this is a positive way to do it. I might even make a few bucks. My bandmates are my friends. I'm not really a rock star. I schlep my own gear. But I always look forward to gig nights. I REALLY look forward to recording. It's when we find out exactly how we sound.

So. Friday. We make our way through the late-night fog to Tony's studio, just outside Saratoga. He's got a basement full of gear, which means we just walk in and start. I love the intricacies of recording: a small forest of mic stands surrounding the drums, cables running everywhere. The mics capture physical vibration and alchemize it into electric pulses that somehow come back out as sound. (Don't ask me too much about physics. I'm an English major.)

We start playing. The rhythm section (drums, bass, guitar) cuts their tracks first, and I'm singing the horn parts in my head, trying to conjure some kind of mojo while standing next to the furnace. The sounds are happening and we get some good takes, except for Julie's "scratch" vocal--aptly named, as she's working her way through another cold. No worries--we'll do the "keeper" vocals some other time.

We stop for a break, listen to the playback, and then listen to Tony's tales from the road. I learn that I'm only like two or three degrees away from Sir Paul Himself. Then there's riffs on music theory, other studios in the area, great guitar players, and all the hardcore kids and singer/songwriter types who've passed through here.

Time for the horns. I'm in the catbird seat in the control room, behind the board, relaxing on the couch, and enjoying the sound of the bass drum, which Tony has sculpted into a most righteous thump. Mark, Amy and John are laughing between takes--and even between mistakes. This has to be the most laid-back recording session I've ever done. The horns are nailing their parts quickly, and the tracks are building nicely.

The tuner on the board lights up, blinking out random notes, an A here, an F# there. Tuning... how close is close enough? I've learned that it's never perfect. My B and E strings need to be a bit flat in order to sound better further up. Getting a sax in tune with two brass instruments is tough, too. The horns soar from unison into stratospheric harmonies, and I realize that it's those little wobbles, that slight shift in pitch that the tuner says is flat or sharp, that makes the music leap out of the speakers into an impressionistic splash of notes hanging between, above, below and behind the speakers. It's like stepping into a scene. That little wobble, the music leaping out as you leap in.

There's an infinity in the space just shy of perfect, the repeating decimal, the swing in the earth's orbit, the shimmy in her step, the drummer who's on time to practice but lagging just behind a chugging beat that makes me drop a shoulder and sway in time before I know it.

It's all deceptively simple, these instruments, these chords, these hands. But, there it is. We hear the playback. We shuffle around, groggy after nearly a full night. I step outside to a lightening sky, tired, but already thinking about what's next.