Tracking Errors

I fucking hate recording.

I got us ahead of schedule on day one. I did the scratch tracks to a click in one or two takes for every song. I got eight hours of work done in one.

It took Jim the entire first and second day to get his drum parts just right. Kenny was ready to kill him—mainly from the boredom of waiting. Scott and I spent the down time finalizing ‘Darker Days’ in the parking lot so we felt productive.

Those first two nights Skye came by my parents’ place. We talked about the recording process and what our next shows later in the summer would look like.

“Wes, it’s so cool how you guys are able to create something so vivid from your imagination.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

“Well, every song starts as an idea. Then you write either the music or the lyrics. Everyone adds their piece to it… and then you play it for people.”

I didn’t need the simple explanation, but I appreciated the affirmation.

“I guess so. Skye, why were you so adamant about dating me? Scott and Jim are also single, you know.”

“I’m not into you because you’re a musician. I’m into you because you’re always becoming someone different—you’re not afraid of letting the world shape you. It’s like you’re trying to get lost… and that stirs something in my soul.”

“I thought you just liked me because I was charming and easy,” I joked.

“Wes, you’re not as much of a slut as people make you out to be… no one knows how hard I had to work to get you the first time,” she said, pushing me down on the bed.

There was nothing else to say. I was falling in love with Skye.

***

Day three in the studio was off to a great start. I got there late because Skye and I still hadn’t figured out restraint.

Kenny was locked in. Beyond all of the antics and the spectacle, he was a monstrous bass player. As soon as he got a perfect run in, he’d listen back with the engineer to punch in to double track specific runs and notes around Jim’s drums—knowing where all of Scott’s vocals went—to make the big moments hit harder.

Watching this with Jim was fun. As much disdain as Jim had for Kenny as a person, he was always entranced by his bass playing.

All in, Kenny was done before noon. I was glad my gear was here because I was up.

I brought my Orange half stack for my amp. We were using two mics on the cab to double the rhythm guitars with just one take. I brought three guitars: my black Les Paul, my acoustic, and one of Caleb’s Jackson Dinkys. The point of the second electric was to get two different tones when I double tracked my guitar solos to create more sonic depth in the mix.

I was able to get my rhythm tracks done by the end of the day. ‘Darker Days’ acoustic guitar part was also easy. But the guitar solos were going to be the death of me.

I was comfortable as a rhythm player because of how much I jammed with Caleb growing up. I also played the backings for him because his lead playing was next level—some Randy Rhoads meets Marty Friedman shit. By comparison, my lead playing was unconfident and unpolished. I wanted to be a Tom Kiefer clone, but I just couldn’t emote or play with the required precision.

So, I wrote middling blues rock solos and played them with my whole being live to distract people from how underwhelming they were. In the studio you can’t hide how much you suck.

That night, I ended up at Skye’s place. Her parents were friendlier at dinner. I just assumed it’s because I didn’t look like absolute shit this time.

“So, Wes, Skye told us you’re currently fourth in your class in school,” her mom said.

“Yeah, I-uh do pretty well with tests and papers,” I said meekly.

“She also told us your father is the VP of Roberts Insurance,” her dad added.

“Yeah…” I didn’t want to talk about my father.

They were dancing around the obvious question: You’re a smart, rich kid, what are you doing with your life?

In the grand scheme of things, I knew my life wasn’t that bad. I knew that people would have killed for the chance to live one day in my life. But that didn’t make me any less hollow.

We retired to Skye’s bedroom not long after—I found it odd her parents had no qualms about me staying the night. Maybe the verbosity of our first night set a precedent that was easier to avoid than to address.

“How’s the album coming along?”

“It’s not bad, but tomorrow’s going to be terrible.”

“Oh, what could be so terrible?”

“I’m supposed to track all of my solos…”

“...and you feel exposed and vulnerable?” she asked, draping her hands around my neck.

“Yeah—actually, that’s exactly it.”

“What can I do to make you feel more confident heading into tomorrow,” she whispered as she bit my neck hard enough to break skin.

“I don’t know, but whatever’s running through your brain right now might help,” I said, getting caught up in the moment.

She slowly undressed me, making sure to collect all of the blood from my neck in her hands in the process.

She bit her lip until it bled—enough for what she had in mind.

You can figure out how this ended. We didn’t need anything else to feel alive—just each other, and a little bit of blood.

***

Skye and I broke our habit of going until sunrise. We fell asleep sometime around three, giving me a few hours of sleep to be rested before the focus needed to record. I almost invited her to the studio, but I wasn’t breaking any unwritten rules.

When I got there, I was a little off. Still unsure of myself. Doubting everything. Scott noticed immediately.

“Wes, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just… hoping I can lock in today. Those first solo takes yesterday were shit.”

“Is there anything I could do to help?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, do you want to lock in or do you want to feel less anxious?” He asked in a quieter voice.

I didn’t like the question, “I want to feel more like myself.”

He signaled me to follow him to his car.

He opened the passenger side door and then the glove box, fumbling through multiple plastic bags before pulling one out.

He handed me a tablet, “Here, take a Xan, that’ll do the trick.”

My first instinct was to laugh. He was joking, right? But when I looked at his face… he wasn’t.

What the fuck?

I took the tablet in my hand, slipping it into my pocket.

I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him with discontent. I was fine knowing he was using powder to get an edge on stage, but I wasn’t expecting him to have a glove box full of narcotics.

“Again, Wes, don’t tell anybody,” he said sternly.

I should have asked if he was okay—or if he wanted to talk about it. But who was I to question him?

I took the pill with a Red Bull. Probably not what the doctor ordered, but I wasn’t exactly going for subtle.

I sat in the studio with my Les Paul, dialing in my tone and getting comfortable with the effects of the pill. My dread started lifting after about twenty minutes. I was ready to play.

The first track started and I was comfortable playing the solo. It only took two takes to get it right. I gave the engineer the thumbs-up before grabbing the Jackson to double track it.

In an hour I railed through the first nine songs. I was numb through the process. Listening back in my current state, the solos sounded perfect for the emptiness I wanted to convey. I had one song left to track—’Darker Days’ and it only needed one track due to the lack of bass and drums.

I was calm. I felt drowsy. As I started to play, I could only visualize Skye. I was fucking up the sound. My bends were too clean, too hopeful. I was adding in new passing tones to paint a brighter picture. What the fuck was I doing?

I got through a seventh or eighth take. They were all fine, but I was losing the plot. I needed to do it one more time. I started thinking about the girls from the X-Mass after party—the dread of their reality. I started thinking about how I wanted Skye to kill me—

I zoned out completely. I looked through the studio glass to see Kenny and Scott’s jaws unhinged. That take was either it or complete shit.

They signaled for me to leave the recording booth, so I guess that it was it.

“Wes, that last take sounded so empty. It sounded like your guitar was crying for help…awesome,” Kenny said.

“I’ve never heard you play like that. That felt like SRV’s playing in Lenny,” Scott added.

“I wasn’t bought in on this song, but I think I get it now,” Jim said.

The whole band agreed on something…that means that solo was either the best or the worst thing I’d ever played.

With half the day left, Scott stepped into the booth. I wondered if or what he was using.

It didn’t matter. He was locked in. Scott was a powerhouse live, but in his efforts to match the recklessness of Kenny and me, his breath support was never used to its potential. In the booth, his full technique and ability shined.

The tracking process would be done by noon tomorrow, about five hours ahead of schedule. We could use the additional time to experiment with vocal harmonies to make micro-adjustments to the sound—then it would be another week for mixing and mastering.

That night, I ended up with Skye at my parents’ house again. She was proud of me for overcoming my personal demons. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d cheated. I wanted someone to be proud of me for once.

Oh—that’s why Scott’s doing this.

I cried—and I was ashamed.

Skye and I didn’t do anything explicit that night. For once, we laid in bed and talked. I was more vulnerable than usual. I talked about my brother—how I always wanted to be like him, someone reliable, humble, diligent, and inspired. I talked about how after he went on tour, I stopped seeing myself in a positive light—and that got worse when I stepped into his shadow playing with Scott, Kenny, and Jim.

I figured this was the beginning of the end of our relationship. I revealed that I was just a scared teenager with imposter syndrome—what was there to love in that?

She stayed though. She didn’t say much. There were affirmations, but I was so busy wallowing like the pathetic sod that I was that I didn’t pay attention to what she actually said. Maybe we were getting closer—maybe we were falling apart—fuck if I knew.