The Song From Hell

Recording a musical "masterpiece"
by Chris Willis

When I saw my boyfriend and our lodger vacuuming the living room, I should have known something was wrong. "We're New Men," they proudly announced, as they swept away six months' worth of cobwebs, dust, beer cans, back issues of the "Beano" and other things best left to the imagination. Could this be the start of a new era, I wondered. Would I at last be able to use my dining table for dinner parties without dislodging a mixing desk and three half-built model aeroplanes? Would I be able to invite my mother round without risking her collapsing into a state of shock as soon as she saw the place? No - I should have known better!

Having got the living room to a state of pristine cleanliness (well, maybe not quite, but at least you could see the floor for the first time in weeks), my two "New Men" proudly announced that they'd bought "something for the living room". Furniture? Rugs? Curtains? No! They went out to the car, and returned with several large boxes labelled "Fostex". My hopes that this might be a new brand of Australian lager were soon proved wrong, as they produced an indescribable array of recording equipment, which they proceeded to set up in the living room, linking it all up with the electrical equivalent of spaghetti. "Can't you put it in the spare room?" I whimpered pathetically, to which they replied, "No, of course not - you know that's where we're rebuilding the motorbike!"

Resigning myself to the inevitable, I poured myself a large whisky and sat down to watch as my living-room was turned into a recording studio, much to the delight of my cats, who seemed to think this was all being done for their benefit. They loved having all those nice new wires to play with, and one of them soon showed a marked inability to distinguish between a synthesizer and a kitty-litter tray. As I rescued the poor creature from certain death at the hands of my boyfriend (who was playing the synthesizer at the time), I asked what all this wonderful equipment was going to be used for, and how soon I could have my living room back. "Oh, don't worry," he replied, "We're just doing a cover version of one song, with our own lyrics. It shouldn't take long." I heaved a sigh of relief. Little did I know what this meant!

Three days later, the whole street had heard Chris Rea's "The Road to Hell" approximately six hundred times, our elderly next-door neighbour had turned his hearing aid off permanently, and I was seriously considering sabotaging the recording equipment. My enquiries as to when this masterpiece (?) of sound engineering would be finished were met with replies ranging from incomprehensible jargon to "Would you like to do backing vocals?" (I'll spare you my answer, as it isn't printable in a respectable magazine.)

At last they seemed to have finished, and I heaved a sigh of relief. Funny though, they didn't seem to be packing any of the equipment away. I asked why, and was told, "We've got cross talk". I though this meant they'd had a lot of complaints from the neighbours, but no such luck! My two acoustic geniuses (?) carefully explained what this meant (I didn't understand a word), and sent one of their array of electronic monsters off for repair, much to my relief. However, I have a serious complaint to make about a certain company's repair service - they're a darn sight too quick! Just when I thought I was in for a few days' peace and quiet at last, the phone rang: "You brought a mixing desk in for repair yesterday? It's ready now if you'd like to collect it." We picked it up from the repair shop (I considered dropping it on the floor in such a way as to cause maximum damage, but funnily enough no-one would let me near it...) and my delightful (?) flatmates cheerfully announced, "Oh good, now we can start all over again!"

For some reason, they now decided that the best place to record the vocals was the kitchen. (sadly, this didn't involve doing the washing-up first). I wandered in from the garden to find four cats yowling pathetically outside the kitchen door while our lodger perched on the edge of the sink doing his Chris Rea impersonation into an impressive array of microphones. I promptly ruined his recording by bursting out laughing. The cats and I then retreated to the living room, only to discover my boyfriend monitoring the backing tracks - at least, that's what I think he was doing! It seemed to involve every musical instrument and piece of electrical equipment known to humanity. "Can't I even get past you to go to the loo?" I asked despairingly. "Of course you can," he smiled, "but don't flush it, or we'll hear it on the tape." At this point I seriously considered (a) valium, (b) going home to mother, and (c) justifiable homicide, but decided to go to the pub instead.

When I got back, I found total silence - at last the wretched track was finished! I then had to listen to the recording. "Yes, yes." I said, "It's wonderful. It sounds terrific. Now can I have my living room back, please?" I should have known better - they were so pleased with what they'd done that, as I write this they're busily recording the 'B' side!

Listen to The Car From Hell.

In memory of a remarkable friend
Chris Willis: 1960 - 2004

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