We're midway through recording our two new songs, and about four weeks behind schedule. We've taken a different attitude to recording these songs; we're striving to record the elusive perfect take that does not need to be edited in post production. We reckon this approach will a produce a more natural sound, should save a lot of time in editing, and should makes us better musicians. It will also be a boost to our pride so when we eventually come to play our finished record we know that what we hear will be a result of our hard work and technical skills, and not a result of clever editing, or a classic Pete bodge job.
Recording provides the opportunity to hear an instrument part to a level of detail not normally heard when practising or performing. You suddenly discover a plethora of mistakes that you've been making when playing the song. It's slightly worrying when you realise that you would have been making all these mistakes at gigs. On the bright side, the monumental psychological struggle for the perfect take forces these mistakes to get ironed out, and you get the opportunity to experiment with subtle changes to the instrument part. I spent three days recording the electric guitar part for Where He Never Was, a three minute track, and it has really improved my guitar playing. I've also just finished two weeks of playing the pan loco and djembe for the 5/4 song. My hands are wrecked; they're literally splitting apart along the fingerprint lines.
Over the last 6 months, since the start of our endeavour, we've been pushing ourselves in terms of the music we write, and the quality of the recordings we make. Occasionally we arrive at a challenge which really tests our abilities. This happened just the other day. Pete suggested I record a ridiculously fast roll at the end of the djembe solo in 5/4. After much practice, patience, and frustration, I got a good take of it. It felt amazing, and is a reminder that tasks which at first seem impossible, can be achieved with a lot or hard work (and luck).
All the long hours alone in the darkened room that we call our studio have resulted in many a case of 'studio fever'. All senses, including common and humour, disappear and leave behind a rambling mess of a human who can't speak, eat or communicate effectively. Occasionally mics have been unwittingly left on to capture these moments that showcase the fragility of the human mind. I've posted some of these below, they include our bassist friend Barney's take on post-modernist abstract comedy.
