Page 36 of Shame Me
Our friend nodded, picking up his glass. After he took a sip of soda from the straw, he said, “I want our music to move people—to make them feel. I don’t carewhatthey feel, but I’ve known since I was a kid that music is like the language of emotion. You can express anger, fear, love, hatred, sadness, joy, arousal, anger—all that shit and more through music. I want to do that. And I also want people to buy our album, listen to it, and feel like every song is worthy of listening to over and over.”
Jeff nodded. “Who do you see as your target audience?”
Zack didn’t hesitate. “People our age…but I don’t think that’s all. I think younger kids and people in their twenties too.”
“That’s a good place to start—but the good news is your demographic will likely be larger. Your audience can potentially be comprised of people in their thirties, forties, and even fifties if your music speaks to them.”
Finally, our leader smiled. “I like the sound of that.”
“So I need to know what you’re wanting—raw or polished sound? What other albums do you listen to and want to feel like?”
“No other albums. I want it to feel like a concert—live, energetic, raw.”
Cy said, “Yeah. Exactly.”
I loved hearing our other guitarist speak up. It made Braden and me feel more like we too could be part of the process, and we both agreed.
“Okay,” Jeff said, “that gives me a good idea where to start.”
We spent over two hours discussing the album—well, it was actually Jeff and Zack with the occasional comment from the rest of us. And, honestly, it was better that way. This band had always had Zack guiding and leading us, and I doubted he would lead us astray now. And Jeff seemed to be a good guy who really wanted to bring out the best of us.
Maybe hewasworth the cost of an appetizer.
I just didn’t know just how much of a powder keg the next several weeks were going to become.
CHAPTER 11
At first, the novelty of being in the studio had us all feeling excited and eager to begin the process of recording our music. After finally making it through pre-production, we were more than ready to actually start recording the songs that would be on our first album—even though we didn’t even have a name for it yet.
Jeff assured us that would all come with time.
We agreed to track our songs live, meaning we were going to record all the songs together. Because we’d been playing most of our songs live three or more days a week—plus all the practicing Zack had had us doing right before recording—we decided as a group that it would help us achieve the kind of sound we were shooting for.
“We might need to go back and record isolated parts, but recording you together will save time,” Jeff agreed—and, of course, as he’d said many times, time was money in the studio.
Unfortunately, none of us had known what a control freak Zack would become until we were there. I don’t think even Zack knew he’d be such a perfectionist. But I knew why—this album was his baby, our new fans’ first taste of what we sounded like, and he wanted it to be perfect.
On that first day, we set up the room, doing sound checks, testing all our equipment, and figuring out what we needed to hear in our personal headphones to make sure we all kept time. Even though we’d played together hundreds of times, having the headphones on made it so different—and kind of weird—but once we tried it once or twice, we all had them set up in a way that helped us do our best.
I also had something called aclick trackcoming through my headphones. Since my drumbeat was what was keeping time for the rest of the band, the click track, kind of like a digital metronome, helpedmestay on course. Cy asked to have the bass turned up on his headphones, and Zack wanted to hear it all equally.
And then we got to work. We planned to record each song five times each, even with Zack singing, but Jeff said they’d have him re-record the lyrics later. With five takes of each song to listen to, Jeff assured us that we’d get the best version, even if the final version was a patchwork of different recordings.
Unfortunately, we had obsessive Zack at the helm—and sober, to boot, something unusual for that particular moment. When we finished the fifth round of a rowdy song called “Get Out of My Way,” Jeff said, “Okay, let’s take five.”
Zack, however, had other ideas. “No, we need to do this again.”
Braden said, “Can we do it after I take a piss?”
“No—we need to strike while the iron is hot.”
“And if I piss my pants, that’ll just add to the overall effect?”
Cy and I smiled—but Zack was not amused. “Yeah, maybe. The song’s only three fuckin’ minutes, Bray.”
Jeff, through the speaker from where he sat behind the glass, said, “Exactly. It’sonlythree minutes. I appreciate your passion, Zack, but I think you’d rather have Braden focusing on his bass instead of his bladder. And coming back fresh might help.”
Zack’s brows furrowed and, for a moment, I expected him to argue. But then he said, “Fine. Butonlyfive minutes.”
