Once I’m back in the recording studio, surrounded by boards and equalizers and cables, I feel a kind of comfort. It's feels like home, like finding a soft, old, fleecy jacket that I can pull on over a bamboo t-shirt.
The Doghouse is a different kind of studio. I’ve never been in one in such apparent disarray. There are cables everywhere. Armchairs, couches and stools are randomly distributed throughout the one large room.
It’s a very ‘live’ room, as one would say, as hard surfaces like clocks and mirrors with ornate frames cover the walls. On the small stage in one corner, a steel stringed guitar, an electric bass, a couple of amps and a full drum kit - and several amplifiers are seemingly casually placed. Blue vertical lines of light blink upstage. The space is ready for a full-on band to jump in. I wonder how we will pull this off – a quiet vocal take of my new poem in this space.
Bryant places the mic in close, a pop filter to catch any sibilance or stray ‘p’s. The world becomes small. We focus in. The surroundings disappear. I read my poem. We do two takes.
Got it. Pack up. Go home – the other one.
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