Advice
Oh, that's a good idea, I said. A diary.
"For legal reasons," my Doctor explained, licking the tip of the syringe.
For legal reasons. Of course. What a sound policy.
"Cover the period in which you make the album. You should fill in some blanks to begin with. Backstory..." he was moulting badly, and brushed some of the grey hairs from his tatty suit, "Don't, however, spoil the magic. Don't explain too much. One of the great things about genuinely unsettling pop music is that no-one can really figure out how the sounds were made. Think Phil Spector, My Bloody Valentine, etc."
Was that bloke out of My Bloody Valentine the one that filled his flat with cages full of Chinchillas? I asked.
"Noisy fuckers, chinchillas," said my Doctor, piercing a dusty ampule, "Meep meep meep all the fucking time. Use 'em to make a coat, that's what I say. Winter closing in."
A coat, I reflected. A coat! What great ideas we're having today.
"Anyway, like I was saying," he continued, "Don't talk for too long about all the tape delays, phasing effects and what have you. No-one wants to know about Neil "riding a fader" for seventeen minutes just to get the right dynamic on the vocal track. You want to talk about hopes, dreams. Shit like that. Give me your arm immediately."
After muttering about the lack of light and not being able to find a vein for a bit, he continued with: "How is Neil, anyway?"
I'm not sure, I replied, I think he might be dead.
"Oh he's not dead," was the response, "The police would have been in touch."
The next thing I knew he was slapping me awake. As he packed his gear away into a sticky sportsbag, he gave me one last piece of advice: "Tim," he said, "These blogs and online journals and crap like that, they're good, but they're three a penny-"
One-third the price of a penny chew, I ventured.
He slapped me again and said, "Yes. As cheap as that. And in your case it's purely for legal reasons. So don't expect anyone to read it, and don't spend ages thinking up stupid conceits for the thing."
Right-o, I said.
"For legal reasons," my Doctor explained, licking the tip of the syringe.
For legal reasons. Of course. What a sound policy.
"Cover the period in which you make the album. You should fill in some blanks to begin with. Backstory..." he was moulting badly, and brushed some of the grey hairs from his tatty suit, "Don't, however, spoil the magic. Don't explain too much. One of the great things about genuinely unsettling pop music is that no-one can really figure out how the sounds were made. Think Phil Spector, My Bloody Valentine, etc."
Was that bloke out of My Bloody Valentine the one that filled his flat with cages full of Chinchillas? I asked.
"Noisy fuckers, chinchillas," said my Doctor, piercing a dusty ampule, "Meep meep meep all the fucking time. Use 'em to make a coat, that's what I say. Winter closing in."
A coat, I reflected. A coat! What great ideas we're having today.
"Anyway, like I was saying," he continued, "Don't talk for too long about all the tape delays, phasing effects and what have you. No-one wants to know about Neil "riding a fader" for seventeen minutes just to get the right dynamic on the vocal track. You want to talk about hopes, dreams. Shit like that. Give me your arm immediately."
After muttering about the lack of light and not being able to find a vein for a bit, he continued with: "How is Neil, anyway?"
I'm not sure, I replied, I think he might be dead.
"Oh he's not dead," was the response, "The police would have been in touch."
The next thing I knew he was slapping me awake. As he packed his gear away into a sticky sportsbag, he gave me one last piece of advice: "Tim," he said, "These blogs and online journals and crap like that, they're good, but they're three a penny-"
One-third the price of a penny chew, I ventured.
He slapped me again and said, "Yes. As cheap as that. And in your case it's purely for legal reasons. So don't expect anyone to read it, and don't spend ages thinking up stupid conceits for the thing."
Right-o, I said.
posted by Timothy X Atack at 7:22 AM
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