Today was it. Last day to record songs for the CD I promised them at the beginning of summer. They'd recorded nothing these five weeks. Every other class I've worked with has made their own E.P., a copy of which I burn for every kid who made it on a song (I also sneak extras to those who almost made it, or who tried really hard, but were just bad at it). Today was the day when, regardless how cute was the little girl looking up from my hip pleading, "Mr. Michael, I can be on the CD? I know what I'm going to write now!"

I had to answer, "I'm sorry sweetie, that part of the class is over. You missed the boat."

"No Mr. Michael!" she mewed.

"If you're not on the CD, whose fault is that?" I begged her consider. "I told you to take the class more seriously, didn't I?"

Rough. But today I separated the serious kids from the rest. Often, the four uninterested kids will drown out the six psyched kids who are dying to record. Young Audiences' policy is that every kid must be given the chance to experience every art activity. For the first few weeks, this is fine; I've had several non-participators suddenly one day jump in start writing and rapping, and not let up the rest of the semester. Ideally though, I would run my class almost like a Rap Team, where no later than three-fourths through a session, cuts could be made. Kids who officially hated the class could go participate in the activity they did like. You act too messy, you're off Mr. Michael's Rap Team -- leaving me with a lean, wholehearted group who I'm sure could record two or three songs a week, easy.

But because of Young Audiences' understandable populist policy, the haters distracted throughout, and summerschool 2007 reaped absolutely no recordings -- until today, when I locked my doors for two separate recording sessions. Each class consisted of six kids (out of 12-15) who had, in the end, after two or three embattled drafts, finally written (on paper!) a coherent, rhyming verse of at least four lines. I also allowed a few kids to join who had tried very hard, but still lacked solid raps; I declared them backup singers for the choruses, "We're the Craig Underground and we bout to set it off!".  

The room was tense. The kids couldn't help feeling my unhealthy urgency. My inner demand for results leaked like steam from the pink corners of my eyes. In contrast to this tension, it was later I who had to calm the kids, reminding them that recording something perfect demands a lot of takes. To lesson the amount, I'd written the song's structure large on the board:

1)      Tremain (intro) – "My name is Tremain, I like to do math /

if I eat too much crawfish, I might get fat"

2) CHORUS

3)      Carl –               "I also like to play football / I bought a throwback  at the mall /

I ain't sharing any of my tickets with y'all."

4)      Dovona –             "My mom works here, she gives me snacks /

we have so much stuff that it's hard to unpack…"

5)      CHORUS

6)      Jared –             "I got the stars in Miss Mateen's class / I answered a question /

 she's so tall we can't reach her"

7)      Carlisha –             "My name is Carlisha, they call me C.C. /

you might get slapped if you come around me."

8)      CHORUS

9)      Devin (who admitted his dad, a local rapper who owns a recording studio, wrote this for him; Devin could never master the rhythm) –

"I know you got a brother / don't want me to be you lover /

but we can keep it under cover / if that's you bout / But if your brother step up / I'ma knock him out."

Every mess-up meant we'd have to start over. So whenever a student fumbled, the rest of the kids would immediately shout him or her down until I broke it up -- my intensity infecting them, maybe. Regardless, I got my results. The older kids couldn't get it together, but the other classes managed two brief ditties: "The Craig Underground" and "Ooh Ooh We" (ed: already posted, as of now!). I'll now spend the weekend mixing and editing them, and editing them some more. Which brings me to the next wild anecdote: how I acquired a computer recording studio for free. Katrina gave it to me, sort of.

I've always loved recording, and always knew that maybe one day when I was old and stable I might sell a kidney and build myself a computer recording studio. One reason my students' music will never make it onto the radio, is because it's initially recorded onto 4-track cassette tape; it may sound cool on the myspace page, but listen to it next to a Jay Z. record and you'll laugh at the fidelity difference. This despite my dumping all the cassettes into my computer, and digitally mastering them -- something I couldn't have done, before the storm... During that first week of evacuation, we received our FEMA checks, and I immediately bought a new laptop – the absolute cheapest one that P____L Computers made -- so that I could accept a temporary job as a reporter for The Houston Press. The laptop arrived in one slim box, along with another, much heavier box, the size of a dorm refrigerator. The first held my cheap laptop, the second was a desktop so big and black it looked army-issued. We plugged it into a monitor owned by the poor Texas strangers who were temporarily housing us (on their goat farm; a whole other story...), and discovered it to be a super-computer with an abnormally large brain, totally tricked-out to power a recording studio.

I immediately called P____L Computers and didn't exactly lie: "I am out of town. My laptop arrived back at home, and my girlfriend thinks there's something strange…"

"Strange? Well, let me read the invoice to verify your order," replied the operator. "It says here you purchased, with a credit card, a P____L laptop…"

"Uh huh."

"That it cost $659."

"Yes. The cheapest one."

"And it came to you in two boxes. One weighed five pounds, the other weighed forty pounds."

"Wait. Now. What part of my laptop weighs forty pounds?"

"Sir, I just handle the paperwork, I don't package the orders or ship them."

"Thank you." I'd never so enjoyed an operator's curtness. "And your name?"

 The next day a supervisor from P____L called back and I knew the jig was up.

"We're actually just following up," she said. "We heard you were unhappy with your order?"

I told her everything was fine, but asked her to also read me the invoice. She repeated everything about my forty pound laptop. I posed the same questions. And I hung up feeling I'd done everything I could, short of demanding her to come and take away the first and most important piece of my new digital recording studio. It all seemed so absurd, I actually suspected that, though we'd ordered the computer to Texas, and though P____L couldn't have possibly known I'm a musician, maybe they were purposefully sneaking me a Katrina donation?

Then, after we returned home, a hole Katrina poked into our roof ruined some expensive guitar pedals. That and the loss of an album I'd been recording at a looted studio, compelled the Music Cares Foundation to give me a $500 check, and a gift certificate for $1000 to buy, at cost, everything else I needed for my studio: speakers, digital interface, CUBASE, a MIDI keyboard, headphones, and an extra-sweet microphone I will never ever let the kids touch, ever. As if the gods were telling me to keep making music…

P____L's mistake and Music Cares' generosity have really, really helped my Music Writing class, and made my kids' finished music sound better. Now I just have to find someone who'll donate a laptop studio, to replace my four-track in the classroom…

I can hold yours?