Post by ryan on Jul 9, 2005 1:42:28 GMT -5
After I got home from work last night, I called my friend Noam Faingold to confirm our plans to record some music next week. It was around 11:45pm.
He answered, we said "hey," and confirmed our plans. There was an awkward silence, during which I could hear the clacking of a computer-keyboard. Then he sighed, and said, "Man, I lost some lyrics."
I laughed and said, "Ah, the things only musicians can talk about! I'm so sorry."
Noam is a talented songwriter, bassist, guitarist, pianist and singer. He studies music at the University of Tulsa. We were in Idiot Plot for a few months together, before the drummer left the band and we decided that the project's lifespan had ended. Noam has since been pursuing his own musical projects, but we still work together on occasion.
"I know I saved 'em in a file here somewhere, but I can't find it," he said.
"Man, I know the feeling," I said. "I've been there."
"But the worst part is, they were really good!" he said. "I think I still remember how a couple of the verses go, but I've lost the best parts."
"Can you do a search? Use the Find tool. Search by the filename, or for files that were updated within the past day or two."
"Nah. That won't work. I wrote these lyrics, like, six months ago. I remember the filename, but it's just not here." He was despondent. "I erased it. I know I erased it."
I laughed again, not because I necessarily thought it was funny, but because I strongly identified with his plight.
"Let me tell you about this dream I had the other night," I said. "It was a nightmare, really. But it wasn't about monsters. As I've gotten older, my nightmares have become more and more personal."
"Yeah," he said.
"I dreamed I was recording an album, alone, in this haunted house. It was kind of a reflection of the house where I grew up, only it was bigger, and gray, and my parents weren't there, so it was like this vast, lonely place. I knew the only way I could get out of here was to record the greatest album I could create. And although I felt depressed and paranoid, because I was kind of a shut-in, I was really excited about the music I was making. I had just finished cutting a scratch version of a track I was convinced would be the centerpiece of the album. It had come to me all in a flash, and I'd recorded it as the inspiration hit.
"Anyway, I had the tape of this song in the other room, and I was working on something else. Suddenly, I heard footsteps out in the hallway, and breathing, and I became aware there was someone else in the house. I put down my guitar and peered out into the dark hallway, but didn't see anyone. I crept to the room across the hall, and looked around, but there was nobody there. Then I heard a crash behind me, and I somehow knew that this person in the house was a thief, and that he was after the demo-tape I'd just cut!
"I turned back to the hallway, and ran after the guy, but I knew he already had the tape. I was cursing him and yelling 'Get back here!' as I chased him, but it was no use. He was always one turn of a corner ahead of me, and not only did I fail to catch him, but I never even laid eyes on him.
"The dream ended as I was trying to yell something like 'Give me back my tape!' It was hard to form the words, like they were stretched out along a string I kept swallowing. Suddenly I awoke to find myself sitting up in bed, realizing that I'd just actually yelled some ridiculous phrase of nonsense, like 'Icicle pop-tart rocket-snot!' It was four in the morning. I laughed. I wondered if Ben had heard yelling from his room. Then I went back to sleep."
"Man, that's crazy," Noam said.
"But you know, that's actually happened to me before, kinda," I said. "When I was living with a friend of mine in my old house on West Edison, we got broken-into, and they stole my minicassette recorder. This was back when I was using a minicassette recorder to sketch-out my ideas, rather than the minidisc thing I have now. The recorder had a tape in it full of a few new song ideas which I'd thought were great at the time, some of the best stuff I'd ever written. But then it got stolen, and I never could remember exactly how those songs went. They were just lost."
"Yeah. That sucks," Noam said. He sighed again. "I think I'm just gonna give up. Those lyrics are gone. Totally gone."
"Well, I know it sucks. I'm sorry, man."
"I'll just go write something new."
"Yeah, sometimes the new stuff makes you feel better, at least."
"Yeah. Well, see you Monday."
"Sure. Good luck."
He answered, we said "hey," and confirmed our plans. There was an awkward silence, during which I could hear the clacking of a computer-keyboard. Then he sighed, and said, "Man, I lost some lyrics."
I laughed and said, "Ah, the things only musicians can talk about! I'm so sorry."
Noam is a talented songwriter, bassist, guitarist, pianist and singer. He studies music at the University of Tulsa. We were in Idiot Plot for a few months together, before the drummer left the band and we decided that the project's lifespan had ended. Noam has since been pursuing his own musical projects, but we still work together on occasion.
"I know I saved 'em in a file here somewhere, but I can't find it," he said.
"Man, I know the feeling," I said. "I've been there."
"But the worst part is, they were really good!" he said. "I think I still remember how a couple of the verses go, but I've lost the best parts."
"Can you do a search? Use the Find tool. Search by the filename, or for files that were updated within the past day or two."
"Nah. That won't work. I wrote these lyrics, like, six months ago. I remember the filename, but it's just not here." He was despondent. "I erased it. I know I erased it."
I laughed again, not because I necessarily thought it was funny, but because I strongly identified with his plight.
"Let me tell you about this dream I had the other night," I said. "It was a nightmare, really. But it wasn't about monsters. As I've gotten older, my nightmares have become more and more personal."
"Yeah," he said.
"I dreamed I was recording an album, alone, in this haunted house. It was kind of a reflection of the house where I grew up, only it was bigger, and gray, and my parents weren't there, so it was like this vast, lonely place. I knew the only way I could get out of here was to record the greatest album I could create. And although I felt depressed and paranoid, because I was kind of a shut-in, I was really excited about the music I was making. I had just finished cutting a scratch version of a track I was convinced would be the centerpiece of the album. It had come to me all in a flash, and I'd recorded it as the inspiration hit.
"Anyway, I had the tape of this song in the other room, and I was working on something else. Suddenly, I heard footsteps out in the hallway, and breathing, and I became aware there was someone else in the house. I put down my guitar and peered out into the dark hallway, but didn't see anyone. I crept to the room across the hall, and looked around, but there was nobody there. Then I heard a crash behind me, and I somehow knew that this person in the house was a thief, and that he was after the demo-tape I'd just cut!
"I turned back to the hallway, and ran after the guy, but I knew he already had the tape. I was cursing him and yelling 'Get back here!' as I chased him, but it was no use. He was always one turn of a corner ahead of me, and not only did I fail to catch him, but I never even laid eyes on him.
"The dream ended as I was trying to yell something like 'Give me back my tape!' It was hard to form the words, like they were stretched out along a string I kept swallowing. Suddenly I awoke to find myself sitting up in bed, realizing that I'd just actually yelled some ridiculous phrase of nonsense, like 'Icicle pop-tart rocket-snot!' It was four in the morning. I laughed. I wondered if Ben had heard yelling from his room. Then I went back to sleep."
"Man, that's crazy," Noam said.
"But you know, that's actually happened to me before, kinda," I said. "When I was living with a friend of mine in my old house on West Edison, we got broken-into, and they stole my minicassette recorder. This was back when I was using a minicassette recorder to sketch-out my ideas, rather than the minidisc thing I have now. The recorder had a tape in it full of a few new song ideas which I'd thought were great at the time, some of the best stuff I'd ever written. But then it got stolen, and I never could remember exactly how those songs went. They were just lost."
"Yeah. That sucks," Noam said. He sighed again. "I think I'm just gonna give up. Those lyrics are gone. Totally gone."
"Well, I know it sucks. I'm sorry, man."
"I'll just go write something new."
"Yeah, sometimes the new stuff makes you feel better, at least."
"Yeah. Well, see you Monday."
"Sure. Good luck."