blue-eyed puppy of a fox. In his Russian, Swedish, British, hodge-podge, world-traveler accent, Nikolai Egg laughs:
“Gang… meet Diego. Diego, meet the crazy squad…”
Jack looks Diego up and down – red cords and pale blue shirt – and frowns. Jack has been dubbing the bass in after and feels threatened that he can’t continue doing everything. He points, then spits sarcastically: “Well go ahead then. Play why don’t you, monkey pretty-boy?”
Diego does a few incredibly fast arpeggios on his liquid-red bass to warm up, but Jack just rolls his eyes: technical doesn’t necessarily equate to passionate and playing the right things and holding back when you need to hold back.
“LETS DO THIS!” Jack woofs. Donnie jumps on the drums, and we hit our latest song. The bass is right in the pocket so sweet, and there is no question after that. Diego is ours. He’s got the groove and is really fucking hot. I am definitely fucking him tonight. All suited up like a square, Nigel sits in the corner listening and telling us about all of the money we’re going to make.
Take after take. More in time. Looser. Nik is nice. Nikolai Egg knows what to do, but man is it hard to do. Try this; do that. Hayley, sing more in pitch. More emotional. Sing softer; sing louder; feel it; dream it; mean it. Endless takes for that one, right moment when it all flies just right. Every day, 16 hours straight of singing, smoking, dancing, and take after take. I had no idea being a musician was this MUCH work, but I am learning so much. It’s teaching how to harmonize with myself and use my falsetto and more magicians tricks for more full choruses. Not that we didn’t know a lot from practicing almost every day back at home in our garage; it’s just never been this picked apart.
And it’s wild good times to be doing music every freaking second. No school. No teachers. No dad. No NOBODY getting in the way of who I am and what I want! I could do this forever and never get sick of it. Jack and I forever: making our art, interpreting each other’s dreams, crowd surfing. For dinner, we go to strip clubs. Donnie wants to hit them all. “Jumbos” has the paraplegic trannies siphoning quarters outside, or we hit up the flying pole-dancers of alien erotic burlesque or “Crazy Girls,” where the girls are bitchy as hell and try to get Jack in their pants in hopes of paid rent. They have these gross, endless, stale buffets. Fried chicken and cheap champagne. La Egg lunches/munches/eats in the studio and adjusts sounds. We play. I’ve seen more titties shaking then a fucking gyno doctor or a lesbo bra designer.
Then I have to go back to the studio. Sometimes alone. Most times with Jack. At 10pm when drums can’t be recorded anymore due to neighbors complaints, Don-nie goes and go-go dances, while I do vocal takes. He leaves in shiny, gold, metallic, cracker thongs at the gay-boy clubs in WeHo. Rasputin. The Abbey. You name it; he thrusts it. He’s paying our rent. He fucks more women then 50 cent. He gets a new tattoo every week. I don’t know what I ever saw in him and am a little embarrassed I ever fucked him and that we used to be a “we.”
Late at night when I have to do the vocal tracks, Jack likes to sit in the room with me. Sometimes he holds my hand when I sing. It’s scary to be on the mic so alone and raw and vulnerable like that: all your success dependent on your voice and your notes and your style, mood, and sway. Nobody knows it but something that gnaws at me in the middle of the night is the idea that I am not a great artist and my music won’t move people. This fear jaguar-creeps in when I have to sing on the mic or make up parts and I have to push through it every time I open my mouth and I just pretend that I’m someone I’m not. The stage persona Hayley who’s strong and sexy. You can’t see how easy it would be for me to break. But Jack is my strength.
At three or four or five am when we’re done, we go to
“Gang… meet Diego. Diego, meet the crazy squad…”
Jack looks Diego up and down – red cords and pale blue shirt – and frowns. Jack has been dubbing the bass in after and feels threatened that he can’t continue doing everything. He points, then spits sarcastically: “Well go ahead then. Play why don’t you, monkey pretty-boy?”
Diego does a few incredibly fast arpeggios on his liquid-red bass to warm up, but Jack just rolls his eyes: technical doesn’t necessarily equate to passionate and playing the right things and holding back when you need to hold back.
“LETS DO THIS!” Jack woofs. Donnie jumps on the drums, and we hit our latest song. The bass is right in the pocket so sweet, and there is no question after that. Diego is ours. He’s got the groove and is really fucking hot. I am definitely fucking him tonight. All suited up like a square, Nigel sits in the corner listening and telling us about all of the money we’re going to make.
Take after take. More in time. Looser. Nik is nice. Nikolai Egg knows what to do, but man is it hard to do. Try this; do that. Hayley, sing more in pitch. More emotional. Sing softer; sing louder; feel it; dream it; mean it. Endless takes for that one, right moment when it all flies just right. Every day, 16 hours straight of singing, smoking, dancing, and take after take. I had no idea being a musician was this MUCH work, but I am learning so much. It’s teaching how to harmonize with myself and use my falsetto and more magicians tricks for more full choruses. Not that we didn’t know a lot from practicing almost every day back at home in our garage; it’s just never been this picked apart.
And it’s wild good times to be doing music every freaking second. No school. No teachers. No dad. No NOBODY getting in the way of who I am and what I want! I could do this forever and never get sick of it. Jack and I forever: making our art, interpreting each other’s dreams, crowd surfing. For dinner, we go to strip clubs. Donnie wants to hit them all. “Jumbos” has the paraplegic trannies siphoning quarters outside, or we hit up the flying pole-dancers of alien erotic burlesque or “Crazy Girls,” where the girls are bitchy as hell and try to get Jack in their pants in hopes of paid rent. They have these gross, endless, stale buffets. Fried chicken and cheap champagne. La Egg lunches/munches/eats in the studio and adjusts sounds. We play. I’ve seen more titties shaking then a fucking gyno doctor or a lesbo bra designer.
Then I have to go back to the studio. Sometimes alone. Most times with Jack. At 10pm when drums can’t be recorded anymore due to neighbors complaints, Don-nie goes and go-go dances, while I do vocal takes. He leaves in shiny, gold, metallic, cracker thongs at the gay-boy clubs in WeHo. Rasputin. The Abbey. You name it; he thrusts it. He’s paying our rent. He fucks more women then 50 cent. He gets a new tattoo every week. I don’t know what I ever saw in him and am a little embarrassed I ever fucked him and that we used to be a “we.”
Late at night when I have to do the vocal tracks, Jack likes to sit in the room with me. Sometimes he holds my hand when I sing. It’s scary to be on the mic so alone and raw and vulnerable like that: all your success dependent on your voice and your notes and your style, mood, and sway. Nobody knows it but something that gnaws at me in the middle of the night is the idea that I am not a great artist and my music won’t move people. This fear jaguar-creeps in when I have to sing on the mic or make up parts and I have to push through it every time I open my mouth and I just pretend that I’m someone I’m not. The stage persona Hayley who’s strong and sexy. You can’t see how easy it would be for me to break. But Jack is my strength.
At three or four or five am when we’re done, we go to
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