Dave’s Studio Blog- Week 1

Well, it’s taken a while, but this week we finally made it back into the studio to start work on our long-awaited debut album (long-awaited by us at least; if you’re not long-awaiting it, bollocks to you). Armed with a wodge of new songs and some home-made meat pies, we headed down to Long Wave studios in ....Cardiff.... for some fine, fine, hard rockin’ action. But before we could get ourselves dug in for recording, we had to make our way to the salubrious VJ HQ for the duration of the session- a self-catering cottage in beautiful rural surroundings. That some inconsiderate bastard had seen fit to plonk a motorway down in! Still, we made our home in the shadow of the M4, with the faraway swoosh of the Eddie Stobart man our constant companion in those cold November nights…

So. According to VJ tradition, Kev always has to arrive first, and this trip was no exception. He pitched up at the Voodoo Cottage on the Saturday before recording started and had the place to himself for the first night or so. Who knows what he got up to in those lonely, unsupervised hours? It’s possible he wanked everywhere and ate out of bins, but I can neither confirm nor deny this. I’m just putting it out there really. I mean, can anyone say it didn’t happen? No. I rest my case.

Next, also according to tradition, Paul arrived. He got there on Sunday morning as I understand it, so Kev had someone to join him in his decadent filth. They probably wanked together for a while, but again I can’t say for sure. Don’t shoot the messenger. Then, when they were joined by Rich a few hours later, the wanking probably (but by no means certainly, remember?) continued for a bit longer. So it’s safe to assume they were all wanked out when Carl and I arrived on Sunday afternoon to restore some decorum to the proceedings. The filthy beggars.

Anyway, once the gang were all there, all wanking came to an abrupt halt, and we did something more civilised; we watched a film. Training Day, in fact. Cool film, but all the gangster speak in it made us all think we were Denzel Washington for a few hours afterwards. Dangerous business if you’re five middle-class white people taking a stroll through the ghetto, but from the safety of our cosy rural cottage, it was a great laugh. “My man”, we would say. And “I’m the po-lice!”, “I’m all up in this piece!”, etc. etc. Good fun, and it added a frisson of excitement to the post-DVD Mario Kart session, so that was good. Even so, all good things must come to an end, and it was soon time for beddy-byes.

The sleeping arrangements for the Voodoo Cottage were a little bit confused from the start. Kev bagsied one of the two single beds in the kiddies’ room the night he arrived, with Paul taking the other when he turned up the next morning. Then Rich had the camp bed in the living room, leaving Carl and me to share the (so-called) double bed in the mum’s and dad’s bedroom (I’m dad, if you’re wondering). Sounds like we got the short straw for turning up so late, but Carl had a cunning plan, you see: he knew I’d be leaving after the first week, because some of us have  got jobs to go to (incidentally, that means there’ll be no blog from me about next week’s shenanigans beyond “I’m sure everything went swimmingly”. Sorry about that), so he thought if he could tough it out for a week of sexual tension, he’d have a capacious double bed all to himself for the second week- the fiend! Although you’ll notice that this brilliant plan has absolutely no benefit to me, but that’s just the way we roll; he gives the orders, I just keep my mouth shut and hit things.

I was wrong before; I’M the mum.

Anyway, Carl’s scheme- fiendishly clever though it was- actually turned out even better than he’d planned. Because we hit a motherfucking snag. Carl, like a puma, plumped instantly for the right side of the bed, because that’s the side he usually sleeps on. BUT SO DO I! The horror! (And by that I mean, when I’m in my bed. I tend not to share beds with Carl and his girlfriend, but when I do I’m usually in the middle.) Anyway, faced with this fresh obstacle, what did I do? Did I stand my ground like the man I’ve always wished I was? Did I square up to Carl and say, “hey man, you’ve oppressed me long enough. Now it’s payback time- here comes the pain!” Did I? Well no, I did not. Instead I thought, “bollocks to this; I didn’t want to share a bed anyway, and if I can’t even hang my right arm over the side in my own idiosyncratic fashion I just don’t want to know” and I went and made a bed out of the cushions from the sofa in the lounge. So Carl, the jammy bastard, got a swanky double bed for two whole weeks of recording all because I didn’t have the stomach for the fight. Just like the French. What a wimp I am.

Anyway, after a few beers I actually slept pretty well on my big gay cushions (but it was the principle of the thing really) and I awoke refreshed the next morning to Paul having a quick go on Mario Kart before we got down to studio business. That man’s an addict, I tell you.

So, after we’d all struggled to work out how to use the shower (one at a time, not all together. Still, you’d think word would’ve got round a bit sooner about how crap it was) we headed off into ....Cardiff..... It was an interesting journey; the miracle of SatNav took us down all kinds of exciting little tracks, many of which- we’ve since worked out- were, if anything, a hindrance as far as reaching our destination was concerned. Still, we made it in the end, and were greeted at the studio by Rob the engineer. He’s a quiet lad, but very welcoming, and he showed us round while I put the kettle on for the first teas of the day. Not long after that, Romesh the producer arrived and we were ready to get started.

As the drummer I was up first, but we knew we wouldn’t be recording anything on the first day, so it was all pretty stress-free initially. Instead, we got all the drums in place and micced up and so on, before the rest of the band laid down guide tracks for me to play along to. Of the songs on the album, only Nowhere Inbetween and Dirty Angel had been professionally recorded before, so it was great to hear all the new tunes already benefitting from decent studio treatment, even if it was only for rough mixes. So you know: it sounded fucking huge. This is very exciting. Are you excited? I know I’m excited. I hope you’re excited too.

Anyway, at the end of the first day, we’d done guide tracks for all the songs and set the drums up ready for recording. Not bad going really, so we buggered off early to lark about at our cottage. For tea, I had some of Carl and Paul’s mum’s home-made veggie lasagne- very tasty. All the rest had some kind of meat crap that I wasn’t interested in. Then, with dinner out of the way, it was time for a little drinkie, so I started on the whiskies. I don’t remember much after that, but I don’t think that’s any reflection on my alcohol intake, we just happened to be a bunch of boring bastards that night, and our bravest stabs toward rock star excess amounted to nothing more than beer, whisky and a few games of Mario Kart. It was good, though. It was like being ten years old again, but with more facial hair.

At bedtime, Paul turned in first and the rest of us stayed up talking for a little bit. Not long after that, strange noises started coming from the second bedroom: scary noises. It sounded a bit like someone dragging a spade along a concrete path laid in a wind tunnel. We checked, but it wasn’t that. Turns out it was Paul’s snoring. Good God, that man’s a machine! Poor Kev, who’d agreed to share the room with him, wasn’t prepared for this, and wondered whether he’d be able to make it through the night. Sure enough, the next morning Kev was strewn over the now cushion-less (those bitches were mine, remember?) sofa; he’d evidently sought refuge there out of sheer desperation. Turns out, even though he’s a light sleeper, Kev would rather sleep on an uncomfortable wooden frame in a room with the rhythm section- of all people!- than be subjected to another night of Paul’s relentless assault on the senses. In fact, before he’d switched to an aural attack, Paul had spent the previous night guffing every five minutes as he sought to pound Kev into submission. It hadn’t worked; turns out that after five minutes of guffage the initial nausea will pass and the hapless victim will lapse into a shallow coma- perfect for a trouble-free night! So, on balance, Kev decided he preferred the gassing to the snoring. And who can blame him?

Anyhoo, studio day two and it was time to get recording. First off we did drums for Rusty Dave, which we’d already recorded at a different studio, but this time it was getting a new treatment. Hopefully by the time the album comes out it won’t be called Rusty Dave anymore, but who knows? Anyway, that went pretty well; that’s one of the tracks I struggle with a bit, so it was good to get it out of the way. Then I had a crack at Nowhere Inbetween, but I know that one like the back of my hand, so that was no problem. Then two more new songs in Feel Karma and SIN! and that was it for the day. All drummed out, I dragged myself back to the cottage for more lasagne and whisky. Then, when it was time for bed, Kev decided he’d take the sofa, so I was left to Paul’s tender mercies. It was quite an eye-opener. I must admit now, I’d scoffed when Kev had turned up on that sofa the night before all shaky and traumatised. That’s because Kev’s a live wire and sleep is not his natural state, but I’ve slept through fucking fire alarms! Surely nothing Paul could produce would affect me! How wrong I was… Actually, as it happens, I did eventually manage to drop off, but not without a serious struggle; turns out Paul not only has the farts of the devil, he also has the snore of the devil! It was like trying to sleep next to someone chucking gravel through a jet engine! Horrific.

On day three, we were starting to get into the swing of things; we could get to the studio without SatNav (not that it was much help in the first place), we were getting quite well-acquainted with Greggs the Bakers and we eventually got the message that Rob didn’t like tea or coffee, so we should stop bloody asking. The songs were going well too; the drums were sounding huge, and on that day we managed to add new songs Burn and End of the Empire, as well as old favourite Dirty Angel to the ever-growing list of future classics. Then, before we headed back to ....Camp.. ..Voodoo.... for the customary lasagne and whisky, Romesh asked us if we fancied going out on the piss with him and a few mates. Well, it was highly unorthodox, but why not, we thought. So, a few hours later, off we trotted for cocktails and witty badinage with the crème de la crème of ....Cardiff.... music society. Lost Prophets were there, Funeral for a Friend. Matt Tuck from Bullet for my Valentine! Kids in Glass Houses… the list is endless. Well, it’s not; that’s probably about it… but that’s still pretty good! If a bomb had dropped on that bar, the Welsh music scene would’ve been left with only the Manics to carry it- and nobody wants that. Anyway, all these famous bods in one place and did we speak to them? Did we bollocks. But we didn’t really think they wanted to be bothered by a load of smelly Brummies, so we left well enough alone for the time being. Not to worry, they’ll all know who we are soon enough. And Romesh had a few cocktails with us while we talked about the music biz, which was all pretty cool.

Anyway, slightly wobbly, we headed outside to talk bollocks for a few hours. Paul was going on about tins of paint or something, it was all a bit weird. Then, out came a couple of guys from some Brighton-based band for a quick chat, before they headed off in a cab. They were pretty cool, but it made me wonder if there were any normal people in this bar, so I collared the next person out the door and asked, “are you in a band, mate? Everyone else in there is”. “Er, not really,” he said. “I used to be in a Cranberries tribute band about ten years ago, but now I’m a trance DJ.” “Music business”, I replied, “ that’s good enough for me”. It was all a bit weird finding ourselves in this ultra-cool world where every random stranger is some kind of miniature star, but kind of interesting too. Anyway, not long after, Romesh appeared with (I think) one of the guys from Funeral for a Friend and announced that they were heading off to the casino and would we like to come? We ummed and ahhed for a bit, but eventually decided we were too damn skint to risk having our internal organs repossessed for the sake a bit of schmoozing. Your time will come, Welsh gambling establishments! Anyway, that brought us down to earth, and we headed back to the Voodoo Cottage for tea, bed and hangovers.

We weren’t disappointed.

Actually, I say that, but I was- if you’re after a hangover, that is. Yet again, my iron constitution saved me from hours of misery and retching, so that was pretty cool. The others weren’t so lucky, though. I woke up before everyone else and went into our living room/ kitchen area (where Rich was sleeping) to oh-so-quietly have some breakfast cereal. And which cereal did I choose? Honey nut clusters, of course! The crunching commenced and Rich groaned slightly. “Uh-oh”, I thought, “better keep it down a bit”. Anyway, then I thought I might have a cup of tea, so I put the kettle on- Jesus Christ Almighty! I’d never noticed before, but kettles are really fucking loud when you’re trying to not wake someone up. In fact, it sounded a little bit like one of Paul’s snores, but a really long one, as if he hadn’t breathed all night and saved it up for one big snore, deflating as he went. Rich wasn’t happy, but I pressed on regardless and, an eternity later, I was the proud owner of a new cup of tea and Rich was free to go back to writhing in agony. Anyway, the long and short of it is, everyone else was hungover and I wasn’t, so ha! Take that, losers! Anyway, with them moaning and groaning and me singing a happy little tune, we headed off for studio day four.

Romesh, hungover and penniless (probably), rolled up at about eleven and we got to work on the final two songs, Dead and Gone and Throw the World Away (those are working titles, by the way; we’ll probably change them every five minutes from now to release date, as is our God-given right). Then, as the coup de grace from the percussion section, Romesh, Carl and I recorded a triple floor tom attack for a breakdown section in one of the new songs, which should sound suitably immense. With all that out of the way, my work was done- hooray! But there was no time to rest on my laurels; there was whisky to be drunk and lasagne to be eaten. Oh, and there were a load of inconsequential bits of music to go over my drums, too, but no-one wants to hear about them.

Anyway, with Day four out of the way we headed off for a nice kip. With trepidation, I climbed gingerly into bed and waited for the onslaught. Paul was snoring away, dead to the world, but he was kind of stopping and starting, so it wasn’t always so bad. Still, at one point I had the brainwave of recording it for posterity, so I quietly grabbed my phone and hit record. My phone couldn’t quite capture the majesty of Paul in full flow, though, and all I ended up with was a weird sort of scraping sound and a bit of whistling. Ideally, what we need is for Paul to fall asleep in the studio at some point. Then, we can layer in a load of cool effects- a dash of reverb, pinch of phaser and so on- and hey presto! We have an album intro! Epic.

And so, we come to day five. I was off the hook as far as recording went, so I felt very relaxed. I told Paul that I’d tried recording his nocturnal emissions in the night (no, not that) and he was absolutely appalled. Then I told him that the night before I’d given him a swift kick to shut him the fuck up and he was even more appalled! I dunno, inter-band tension at this early stage; no wonder all these rock music singers end up on the horse. Anyway, once Paul had established once and for all that I wasn’t to be trusted, we headed off for my final day in the studio.

We turned up bright and early, but, once Romesh arrived, we found out there was a problem with the bass (something to do with the intonation, whatever that is). That put a big dent in the day’s plans and, rather than recording all the bass tracks, as had been the idea, we only managed to get three. Never mind; que sera sera and all that. Still, that was all forgotten just as we were leaving, as we were suddenly in receipt of some BIG, BIG NEWS! Turns out we’ll be supporting The Answer in at ....Nottingham.. ..Rock.. ..City.... on December 1^st! Stick it in your diary, Voodoo fans! And Answer fans, for that matter.

So, with that news (and Paul’s snores, twelve hours after the event) still ringing in my ears, I headed back to the cottage for my last slice of lasagne and to write this blog. And now you’re up to date. I don’t know what to tell you. Er, here I am. I might pick up this cup. Yeah, that was good. Okay, I’m going now. Bye!