The week was a tornado of late nights and a cacophony of 3 different lives merging under one roof (MY roof. The engineer’s roof. OUR roof). Listening back to the day’s recording, the singer half-listened to the Hammond while the other half of his thoughts encompassed a small daughter, a son and wife back home. The engineer had a seriousness about him; calculated comments, furrowed brow. The drummer beat his hands against every available surface-my desk, my chairs, his chest-in time with the sounds he created earlier that day. His repeated questions echoed the very instrument he played. A rhythmic “Is it good? Is it good? I think the snare is hot. I think it’s too hot. It’s too hot.”
A week of sharing a bathroom, living room, every room. A week of cooking, cleaning, emptying ashtrays and disposing of “Big Flats” cans. A week swollen with laughter, of missing my husband in bed by 10, of wigs and intense conversation.
For me, “the wife”, a week of recording is always a mixed bag of emotions. HAPPY “the boys” are doing something they love; ANNOYED I can’t get any sleep; GRATEFUL they appreciate my cooking; EXCITED to have new songs in the house again.
I am certain the visiting musicians left camp with lighter boots. The drummer with a washed slate and hope for a less burdensome path, and the singer with more promise than he when he arrived. As for the engineer, he rounded out the week with a lighter heart.
As the wife, I turn to a few days of rest. An open bedroom door, no fear of the coffee grinder awaking exhausted couch sleepers, and no more listening to the same song repeating itself like a stammering child. Peace and quiet. Oh yeah- and I have my husband back 🙂