Ken suggested that Socks run through each song one more time, to ensure a good take or a different option, and Socks sturdily played through again. Edgar, Fern, and I sat on a couch, watching and trying not to make any noise that could be picked up by the mikes. Socks made a few mistakes this time through, but happily began again when it was required.
The goal was to get one of us done a day, and the next day was Edgar’s turn. He listened to Socks’s drum parts through headphones and played along, his amp miked. Ken sat riveted to the computer. Multicoloured tracks appeared, scrolling across the screen, representing Edgar’s bass lines. He definitely started and stopped a lot and it became clear that his parts were going to take awhile. So Fern and I wandered out to the river, sat in the grass, and I watched her smoke cigarettes.
The next afternoon was Fern’s turn, and as the rest of us sat on the couch and watched, it became very clear to me that she had improved a lot. And she’d been really good before. As she launched into the solo in “Blood on My Fist,” she absolutely soared and I noticed that it had grown more complicated as well, as if she had slightly reworked it. It was amazing. Even Ken looked over at us on the couch, lifted his eyebrows, and nodded approvingly as she played. I folded my arms. He was impressed because she was a girl, and that pissed me off. But at the same time, I also glowed with pride.
When Fern had finished, she took off her headphones and Ken said, “You’re a fucking great guitarist.” I waited for him to add for a girl, but he didn’t.
“Thanks,” she said. “Shall we go through them again? I have some harmonies I’d like to put down for a few of the parts, and a couple more things to add to broaden the sound. I’m the only guitar onstage, but I figure that it’s okay to have the CD sound a bit different.”
“Sure it is.” Ken nodded. Fern put back on her headphones, and I heard the tracks start over in her ears.
xXx
That night I found it hard to sleep. I was excited to get started on my vocals the next day. When Fern had finished and I’d gone home, my parents had asked me if I wanted to get a job for the summer, and I’d done my usual nod, smile, and look concerned routine. I felt like I had a job. Our band was in the studio — sort of — and that was work, wasn’t it? I knew my parents weren’t going to understand, but once our CD was recorded we might actually sell some of them and make some money. Being in a band could be a job, right?
The next afternoon we all got back to the rehearsal space. I’d brought my little binder with my lyrics in it, and I was relieved to see that Ken had brought out a little music stand for me to set it on.
“Okay, guys, same drill,” he said as Socks, Edgar, and Fern sat down on the couch. “Rachel, you’ll hear the tracks coming through your headphones. Do your thing. We’ll just go through the songs one by one, and if you need to stop, let me know.” He seated himself at the computer.
I thought about this for a moment. “So you guys will just hear me singing then?”
“Yep,” Ken said.
I didn’t like the sound of that very much. “Can’t we have the music playing along in the room?”
“No, because the mike will pick that up. We need as clean a vocal take as we can get,” Ken said.
My face started to heat up. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
Ken swivelled around in his chair to look at me thoughtfully. So did the others. I started feeling both very stupid and very angry. My cheeks pounded as I tried to find words to explain without sounding like a moron. “It will be hard for me,” I said, “with you guys just staring at me, and all you can hear is just me sounding bad.”
“You don’t sound bad,” Fern said.
“That’s what we all did, anyway. We all went through that,” Edgar said.
“It’s different though, with a voice,” I bumbled. “I have to be all into it.”