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 | | | | May31 Written by:Ted Perlman
Sunday, May 31, 1998 6:00 PM Drugs.
Uh, oh, here it comes. At some point everybody in the music business comes into contact with them, either by doing them ("Oh, it makes me s-o-o creative!") or by having to work with someone who has done them ("Could somebody please pick Joey up off the floor so we can get started"). The process of making music come to life is such a precarious one that songwriters will do almost anything to help them create. When they get stuck and their brain is devoid of song, the idea of artificially kick starting the cerebrum with a nice fat joint doesn't seem so bad. The only problem is that the "high" is selective - you get blasted but everyone else around you is straight. You think you've just sung the doo doo squat out of a song while everybody in the control room is opening their phone books to try and round up another singer. You stank. But to your ears it was gold. "Oh well, fuck 'em. When I'm famous they'll eat dog food off the floor to get me to sing their piece of shit tune". Not a good session.
One time I was working on background vocals with a singer. He was doing all the parts himself, overdubbing each voice and making it sound like a big group of vocals. He was burning through the parts - track after track, he was killin' em. Punch, sing, punch, sing. We moved as one. This was going to be an easy session, I thought to myself. OK, time to take a break. I get a cigarette and cup of coffee, he goes outside and, with the assistance of some prime sensimilla (a prime-rib cut of marijuana), heads off to the farthest reaches of the known galaxy. Off to see the wizard, Amelia Earhart, Judge Crater, and Elvis. He's feelin' no pain. In other words, he's fucked up. Break's over, back to work. I push the buttons, he starts singing. Where once there were glorious notes emanating from his vocal cords, now it sounds like Moms Mabley. Out of tune Moms Mabley, no less.
Later for this, I think to myself. "Oh, Pavarotti, what the hell happened to your voice?".
"Fuck you, man, don't give me no shit. I sound fine. What's your problem?" came the reply from the other side of the microphone. The session was fast approaching meltdown.
"Hey, don't get no attitude with me, you don't sound very good. Did you go and get high, by any chance?". I know he smoked that joint, but I'm trying to make nice. He thinks everything is just dandy, while the tape says that he sucked.
"Just roll the tape, you're crazy. I sound the same as I did before. I just took a couple of hits off a joint. It makes me relax." Sure, relax right into mud. Eventually we resolved the problem. I walked out of the studio and went away for a couple of hours until he came down. As I get older, I'm learning how to avoid big fights.
Another time I had a very famous writer in the studio. Very famous and very high. He was going through his cocaine period. Keep doing cocaine, and he would die, period. My mom and dad were visiting with us for a few weeks. Now, my dad loves to meet famous people. Superfan, that's my dad. When he hears that a famous writer is in the studio, he naturally wants to go meet him. I'm walking a saxophone player out to his car. "Sure dad, go on and say hello to the big deal guy". Dad opens the door, walks in the studio and says hello. To a dead man. Well, not really dead, just very stoned. Head into the knees, hands shaking, heavy breathing kind of stoned. Not what dad expected.
"Hi, I'm Ted's dad". No answer.
"Well, it was nice meeting you", dad mumbles as he makes for the door in an awkward retreat.
Just then, the dead arise. Big deal writer slowly lifts his head up, and, with great effort, utters these classic words: "Ted's a genius". And collapses back into his spaced out void. Is Ted a genius? Did the background singer sound as good as he thought he did?
Don't get high.
At least, don't get high when you have to work.
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