I’m in a recording studio with two other members of the band I’m in, listening to stuff we’ve recorded, with an eye toward finishing touches. But really it’s a last chance to fix mistakes: ropey backing vocals; mistimed bass notes; a banjo part played with an out‑of-tune B string.
“I can easily redo it,” I say, thinking: I don’t even remember playing it in the first place.
“You only hit that string a couple of times,” says George, the engineer. “I can probably edit it.”
“As always, I prefer solutions that don’t involve me doing anything,” I say.
The guitarist, meanwhile, is compiling a list of potential album titles. Whenever he comes up with one, he hands me his notepad and insists I add one of my own.
“Don’t ask me to explain my thinking,” I say, handing it back.
“There are no bad ideas at this stage,” he says.
George loads another song. It begins gently, with guitar and vocals, building across the second verse and first chorus to a swelling instrumental interlude. Then it drops down again.
“I think it needs something else coming in there,” I say.
“I agree,” says George.
“Something different, maybe a bit nautical,” says the guitar player.
“Ship’s harmonium?” I say, feeling clever.
“That sort of thing,” says the guitar player.
“OK,” says George. “Let’s mike up the harmonium.”
“Shit,” I say. “I forgot you had one.”
“Good luck,” says the guitar player.
I don’t know if the studio’s old harmonium has been on a ship, but it looks the part. Two big foot pedals operate the bellows that push the air across the reeds, and they creak when you step on them. I recall trying to play this instrument once before, years ago. I also recall we didn’t use any of it, because it sounded terrible.
“Don’t touch any of the knobs,” says George through my headphones. “It barely works as it is.”
“I won’t,” I say.
The first take is disastrous. I forget what key the song is in. By the time I chance upon the correct answer – D major – the eight bars are over.
When I finish I can see everyone laughing through the glass, but George graciously does not press the switch that would allow me to hear it until they’ve stopped.
“A few mistakes,” he says.
“I’m not a recognised harmonium player,” I say.
“This is gonna work!” says the guitar player.
“It can only get better,” says George. “I’ll drop you in the same place.”
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It doesn’t get better, and here’s why: pumping the pedals along with the tempo of the song does not produce sufficient air; the sound keeps dying away. But if I pump faster than the song it becomes difficult, if not impossible, to keep time.
“How did they do this on ships?” I say.
“Would it help,” says the fiddle player, “if I did the pedals for you?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”
The fiddle player barges me over on the bench, plugging in a second pair of headphones.
“Don’t listen to the song,” I say. “It makes it worse.” He takes the headphones off.
“Two bars and in,” says George.
At my signal, the fiddle player begins to pump furiously. In my headphones it sounds like someone climbing the stairs in a haunted house. But when I press the keys, the notes come through loud and bright. As we progress, it gets louder. And louder. I think: he’s over-pumping! I stop before the end.
“Sorry,” I say. “I thought the harmonium was going to explode.”
“Ha ha!” says the fiddle player.
We do eight further takes in three‑legged-race fashion: one pedalling, one playing, the harmonium slipping up and down in volume, and the fiddle player laughing out loud whenever I make a mistake. In the end, George glues the front half of one take to the back half of another, and we have a part.
As this sleight of hand is taking place, our trumpet player walks in.
“Hey,” she says. “How’s it going?”
“Just, you know, adding harmonium to everything,” I say. The guitar player hands her his list.
“Album titles,” he says. “Read and add.” She scans the list in silence.
“We’re still at the no-bad-ideas stage,” I say.
“Evidently,” she says.
‘ The preceding article may include information circulated by third parties ’
‘ Some details of this article were extracted from the following source www.theguardian.com ’
