28 August 2006
We still have some piano tracks to do, now that the piano has redeemed itself, so we start with Something to Believe in. This is pretty straightforward because we've actually played this song a few times live now, so Matt is familiar with the piano part. We record it with a couple of extra mics in strange positions, just to give Eric something to do, and make sure he's paying attention.
After this Kim arrives and we turn our attention to the vocal on Outside. Matt isn't the kind of singer who does any preparation for singing, and consequently (though who knows? It's not for me to say, is it? I'm no throat doctor, no singing teacher, no joiner-of-dots) isn't very durable. When he gets tired, his voice goes all furry and the notes start getting split and we have to stop. This would be problematic, apart from a) we can do more tomorrow, and b) he sings very well almost immediately.
I'm not sure where the singing came from. When he was young and we were in the church choir, he was a celebrated treble. He'd be first choice for 'Once in Royal David's City' every Christmas. Later, when we started doing bands, he was always the singer, but that was mostly because he wrote the songs and could sing in tune. This remained all the way through our rock'n'roll period even though his voice wasn't ideally suited to it. It's something that goes along with knowing how to write a tune - you also know how to sing it.
Over the years making music, you meet people with exceptional voices. For the best, it's something they don't even appreciate, it's part of the standard-issue equipment as far as they're concerned. I love to sing, but unlike some, when I open my mouth golden rays of beauty rarely emerge (unless they are very very high). I think great songwriting is characterised by the voice of its creator. For some, let's say, Stevie Wonder, you can hear the work is all done by the voice - he sits down, plonks out a couple of chords on the clav, and then when he starts singing it's like a direct connection with his soul. It's all felt; the music and the tune flow from the same place, and there it is, fucking brilliant. There's a connection between physicality and music. I've noticed that if you're mixing something, it sounds better if you tap your foot. You enjoy music more if you're moving. It's like what those cunts say about how if you smile you feel happy, even if the smile is false. If you're writing a song and you start taking deep breaths and singing loud, and leaping big intervals at the top of your range, that song is being made exciting by your body. If you want to write a happy song, put your piano on a trampoline. That's the visceral school of songwriting (you can replicate some of these effects by turning your amp up loud).
On the other hand we have the cerebral school. Paul Simon is an example. His music is no less beautiful or heartfelt, but you are much more aware of the thought process behind it, of a conceptualisation of the material, whether that be an inverted chord on the guitar or a type of song. Bridge Over Troubled Water is a tribute to a gospel song. It's brilliantly crafted, but it features the brain in a different way than it would if Stevie had written it. Such writers tend to have unconventional voices - Paul shipped in Art to handle the conventional beauty; Elvis Costello is not Elvis Presley, but that's why we love them, because we love them as much as their songs.
I'd put Matt more in the cerebral camp. What's interesting is that along with Aqualung, which was a conscious decision to return to writing with less brain in it, came a whole new voice as well. People never said he was a great singer before Aqualung. It was a case of putting the music, the singing and the meaning into alignment. People can hear honesty, and when something is true it seems to resonate more deeply. We're not aiming for perfection any more, just something you know is right when you hear it.
That's what we're listening for today, for the song to feel right when you hear it. Outside has been a problem song from the beginning. Perhaps it's a shit song, and that's why it's hard to get right? Or maybe it's a good song but it wants to sound like a bad band? All I know is that it's been a fierce struggle to make it work, and if it weren't for the fact that there's something about it that might mean it's one of 'those songs', it might have gone away. But here it is, actually sounding good, and awaiting the final final, once and forever, finishing off.
Matt and Kim are fretting over the words. I get the impression they're trying to de-dumb it. But it won't be un-dumb. It's a song where the chorus comes in with a ravishing 'Bay-behhh!', which is the very essence of dumb and pop. It doesn't quite sit right with our chin-stroking sophistication, but there it is, that's what the song wants to do, and no matter how many nit-picking variations or alternatives are suggested, nothing sounds as right as 'Bay-behhhhh, don choo stay-dehhh ... on the INSIDE!'. We're also trying to introduce a little light and shade into the delivery. Once again the song tends towards loud and shouty, and it should get there, but it should retain some of the intimacy of the bedroom conversationnot that kind of bedroom conversation. the words imply.
It takes all afternoon going round these houses until we're finally satisfied with the words and the approach, by which time the fur is well and truly rising in Matt's throat. He's dejected, because it would be such a relief to know it was finally and forever finished. To me, it's progress, because the hard part is making these minute choices about syllables and notes, waiting to find the version that sounds right and doesn't have a bit that's going to piss you off every time you hear it for the rest of your life.
The irony is that we're continually referring to the demo vocal, the first ever version of the song, which seems to have got it right in a way that no subsequent version has. Of course, we keep saying, we can always just use that. But something seems wrong about that. Too easy, I guess.
