The tools are all there: handheld recorder, metronome, guitar, guitar tuner, laptop, FireWire interface and stereo condenser microphone. The piano is a Kawai grand, a relatively cheap rental, surprisingly beautiful and versatile — like meeting Naomi Watts at a laundromat. I’ve taken it out of tune, though. Too many experiments with strumming, striking, scattering loose change across the strings. If I had the space and the funds, I’d get an old upright and gleefully mutate that instead.
Lighting helps. Two table lamps for moody fumbling; overhead fluorescents for no-nonsense troubleshooting; yellow neon for rock ‘n roll. They made a valiant attempt at sound isolation in this building, but when the metal band sets up camp next door on Thursday nights, there’s only so much that drywall can do. You just switch the lights and go fortissimo right along with your neighbors.
The truth is that I don’t really know what I’m doing, and never have. This is why the Asylum is crucial: it is a safe place to be helpless, to have no idea what the hell is going on, to doggedly toil away at something that may ultimately prove useless. A teacher once told me that songwriting involves two entities: the Monster and the Scientist. One is primordial, impulsive, without awareness of itself. The other is judgmental, incisive, analytical. You need both, but the Scientist is always there, whether you like it or not. It’s the Monster who’s hard to find. In this little cluttered room, though, it feels at ease. I’ve finally built a place where it can crash around undisturbed.