What’s The Buzz ?
Corner of 28th Street and 5th Avenue, NYC, May 28, 2012
Posted on May 28, 2012
So when do you know when a project is finished, knowing that it is never really finished as you ask yourself, is this, if not my final, at least my last word? You warned the sound engineer Reese before you started the final four hour studio session that you were going to be direct, even a little too direct maybe and there may also be times when you were going to be too short, too curt, too impatient and maybe a whole lotta rude. You said, “Come what may, I am going to walk out of that door tonight with an hour long album that burns a hole in my pocket instead of a story so far that is buried beneath the rubble of material that weighs in at three hours.” Or irritable expressions reformed your face to words to that effect. We worked for four hours without a break. Reese said that I am not the worst client he has had in the studio. I took his word for it and as he transferred the music to a CD, I played an overture with pride so that I would finally be allowed to fall from the grasp of the three Graces with whom I have been tangoing into hours that are too little as they are too late as they insisted without leave that we be right on time.
A desire, days later, as I dance in a studio at the corner of 37th Street and 10th avenue listening to the album tells a tale of the call of sirens who sing: break what you make, break what you make. To which I respond: not this time, not again and not listening.
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palm of my hand into my chest to check for the beats per minute that make a pulse. “But you’re going the wrong way.” “No I’m not”, she says. “This way you get to see which squares are missing when you start to make, what the others told you not to make.” “And what’s that?”, I ask. “What?”, she asks. “What I must not make?” “Why, make a sound of course!” “What if I can’t help it?”, I ask. And she says, “Isn’t that why we’re here?” How could I forget? “Was hast du gesagt?” “Nothing, I was just thinking how easy it is to forget how when you…” And she’s gone. There’s a man coming down the stairs wearing a base-ball cap and holding a black plastic bag that brushes against my left knee as I hear a song of sweet nothings that I whistled in the dark as he staggered after me on crutches, speaking of the heart as a phantom limb. That, I decide, is what I will sing about today whilst we struggle to keep our heads above the water mark as I watch the tide come in over his shoulder.
