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 | | | | Apr30 Written by:Ted Perlman
Thursday, April 30, 1998 6:00 PM Most songwriters tend to think the world revolves around such global-impacting issues as:
1. Will Ms. Big-Big-Big Star record one of my songs on her next album?
2. Will Mr. Big-Big-Bigger Star record one of my songs on his next album?
These questions are with them, morning, noon and night.
The President resigned. Who cares? "Did you know that my song is on hold over at CBS?"
We had a small atomic war with Lithuania this morning. "So what - I got the next Janet Jackson single".
Not the most caring about everyone else group of people. So, keeping this in mind, a small earthquake should have little impact on songwriters, right? Think again. Scared the piss right out of every writer I know. Come to think of it, not only the piss but just about every thing else they had ingested over the previous 24 hours came out. Kind of like Mother Nature don't care diddly about music. The nerve of her.
The night of the "not quite Big One" I was working on a song for two of my up and coming clients. These two ladies haven't had any big hits yet but they will soon. We had worked all day on this song. Sounded great. The vocals had all gone down to tape beautifully. Everybody sang great. I had mixed my butt off, I was proud to say. "Ted's a genius, Ted's a genius". Just another normal finish up at dawn kind of session.
I got ready to make two cassette copies of this fabulous new creation when "it" came. Started out like a visit from a neighbor with bad breath. Turned into a visit from a neighbor with bad breath and a machine gun. Maybe two machine guns.
"Oh shit, we're moving."
"Holy shit, we're really moving!"
"Get me o-o-u-u-t-t of here......!"
Lights go off, the floor dances a tango. Everybody heads for the door.
Well, not quite everybody. One of the two soon to be famous lady writers has it in the back of her head that the closet is the best place for her to be in a situation like this. Probably heard it from one of her afraid-to-come-out-of-the-closet gay friends. Wherever she heard it, it sure wasn't in the guide on how to save your ass in an earthquake.
Me and the other lady do what comes naturally. We run like fools for the front door. Bad situation, get the fuck out, I always say. Boom, crash, bam, holy cow batman, we're shaking like jello.
"Cecelia, Cecelia, where are you?" cries the writer with me as we head out into the night. Nothing. "Cecelia, Cecelia, where are you?" we both cry.
"Here I am" comes the muffled response from behind the jammed shut door to the studio.
"What the hell are you doing in there?" we both ask. I don't remember her exact answer, as the door decided to come loose at that very moment and fall down on the floor. We managed to temporarily prop the door up, and all three of us headed back to the house to await word on what had just happened. Maybe try to contact their families and let them know that the next George and Ira Gershwin were still alive. My wife, kid, dog, and the two songwriters spent the next two hours in the hallway, waiting for the sun to come up so that they could drive home.
What does this all have to do with music? My point, exactly.
Nothing.
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