Post by Jack of Blades on Oct 12, 2006 17:44:21 GMT -5
(There is a secret agreement between those rock stars that we flock to for inspiration and gratification. They like to pretend that all these singles they manufacture are a product of instant circumstance. Fuelled by drugs and groupie sycophantism, ‘Imagine’, ‘Born in the USA’, ‘One’ and ‘Fame’ were all formed in an impossibly random set of criteria. The videos that we see in promotion with these great tracks happened through chance. Hetfield and his crew were watching ‘Johnny Get Your Gun’ and out of nowhere, they found themselves finishing their gruff masterpiece. Bowie was just walking down an American highstreet one day before expressing his detestation for Americans. None of this was planned. Or at least that’s what they’d like you to think and consider the truth. You see, all these great tracks don’t come immediately and without clues. They are all drafted, practiced, recycled, added, submitted, retracted, detracted. Nothing about the ‘Rock n’ Roll’ lifestyle is improvised. It is the greatest irony of the hedonistic stars we say. Everything comes through perspiration; nothing is remote. Many of the greatest lyrics of rebellion against the norm, in fact, come from clinical, recording studios that have heard countless attempts just at hitting the right note. Clinical, recording studios like this one. A spider’s web of microphones topples from the ceiling of the soundproof room with imbedded speakers occasionally penetrating the cushioned wall. A glass screen demonstrates two impatient gentlemen waiting for whatever was supposed to be inside the studio. One, just fiddles around with the controls happily changing the pitch and rhythm in his plaid shirt. The other, standing in his pinstripe suit with purple shirt paces around the studio checking his watch every other tick. The fact he is wearing sunglasses does not help the recording of his client’s timekeeping. Suddenly, through the studio’s back door, arrives the Bastard Clown, flustered and seating himself on the stool provided.)
(Into the microphone.) Jack of Blades: Why didn’t you tell me Oprah was recording the Audiobook for ‘Oprah does The Da Vinci Code?’
(From the screen.) Producer: We didn’t uh…we didn’t know.
Jack of Blades: So, why am I here, anyway? It’s not that advert thing, is it? Only half of the blood pumping through my ice veins belongs to the Irish nation. Oh fine, I’ll say it anyway. Pink hearts, yellow moons, orange…
(Off-screen.) Producer: No, it’s about the voice recording for the plush toys the WCF toy range.
Jack of Blades: Kids want to presumably cuddle up in bed with a twelve-inch, fluffy version of me?
(Off-screen.) Producer: A talking, twelve-inch, fluffy version of you.
Jack of Blades: Cute. So what I just come up with anecdotes and you record them because there is very funny story involving a haemophiliac and a lawnmower that I was just told about…
(Off-screen.) Producer: What happened?
Jack of Blades: She died.
Producer: I think we’ll just stick to the script, which you’re sitting on.
(Jack removes himself from the stool and finds the crumbled paper underneath his weight. Lifting it up, he begins to read the ‘suggested’ phrases.)
Jack of Blades:…nmnm…What would Jack do?…Thus Spoke Zeus? Zeus?
(Off-screen.) Producer: It’s easier to say than Zarathustra.
Jack of Blades: Shut up. …Yeah, I’m not saying this. I’ll tell you what, I’ll say some choice phrases and you record, mkay?
(We cut to a montage of Blades shouting into the microphone ranging from him roaring into the microphone as if he were Hitler at the Nuremberg Rallies, enjoying a cigar while talking peacefully as if he were a jockey for a pirate radio station and a weird process of swallowing the microphone and then removing it from his mouth. We cut to back inside the studio where the producers switch dials and the like.)
Producer: So, what have we got so far?
(The fellow producer flicks a few switches on the machines in front of him causing the cassette reel to begin to wind.)
(From the speaker.) Jack of Blades: “Hey, kids, wouldn’t it be funny if you flushed mommy’s purse down the toilet?…Redrum, Redrum!…Say to the next man in a police outfit you see that your daddy touches you…Next time, you visit the toilet, try and find the surprise in the water…Have you ever put a hose on the exhaust pipe of your dad’s car?”
Producer: Fuck it, I can’t be bothered with that psycho anymore. Just install the chip in the prototype and give it to him.
(Cut to the technical producer moving into the studio with a plush toy, mini leather trenchcoat and all, handing it to Blades somewhat tentatively. Blades finishes his drink and examines the toy counterpart.)
Jack of Blades: Cute. I know just who to give it to.
(And as we have our final cut, we see the somewhat hideous doll resting on the doorplace of the welcome home that Jack visited on Slam. It’s cute little neighbourhood and middle class lifestyle. All this revolves around a sick little doll with a sick little set of phrases designed to taunt and twist the psyche’s of our children. All with the name tag, ‘To Jade…’)
(Into the microphone.) Jack of Blades: Why didn’t you tell me Oprah was recording the Audiobook for ‘Oprah does The Da Vinci Code?’
(From the screen.) Producer: We didn’t uh…we didn’t know.
Jack of Blades: So, why am I here, anyway? It’s not that advert thing, is it? Only half of the blood pumping through my ice veins belongs to the Irish nation. Oh fine, I’ll say it anyway. Pink hearts, yellow moons, orange…
(Off-screen.) Producer: No, it’s about the voice recording for the plush toys the WCF toy range.
Jack of Blades: Kids want to presumably cuddle up in bed with a twelve-inch, fluffy version of me?
(Off-screen.) Producer: A talking, twelve-inch, fluffy version of you.
Jack of Blades: Cute. So what I just come up with anecdotes and you record them because there is very funny story involving a haemophiliac and a lawnmower that I was just told about…
(Off-screen.) Producer: What happened?
Jack of Blades: She died.
Producer: I think we’ll just stick to the script, which you’re sitting on.
(Jack removes himself from the stool and finds the crumbled paper underneath his weight. Lifting it up, he begins to read the ‘suggested’ phrases.)
Jack of Blades:…nmnm…What would Jack do?…Thus Spoke Zeus? Zeus?
(Off-screen.) Producer: It’s easier to say than Zarathustra.
Jack of Blades: Shut up. …Yeah, I’m not saying this. I’ll tell you what, I’ll say some choice phrases and you record, mkay?
(We cut to a montage of Blades shouting into the microphone ranging from him roaring into the microphone as if he were Hitler at the Nuremberg Rallies, enjoying a cigar while talking peacefully as if he were a jockey for a pirate radio station and a weird process of swallowing the microphone and then removing it from his mouth. We cut to back inside the studio where the producers switch dials and the like.)
Producer: So, what have we got so far?
(The fellow producer flicks a few switches on the machines in front of him causing the cassette reel to begin to wind.)
(From the speaker.) Jack of Blades: “Hey, kids, wouldn’t it be funny if you flushed mommy’s purse down the toilet?…Redrum, Redrum!…Say to the next man in a police outfit you see that your daddy touches you…Next time, you visit the toilet, try and find the surprise in the water…Have you ever put a hose on the exhaust pipe of your dad’s car?”
Producer: Fuck it, I can’t be bothered with that psycho anymore. Just install the chip in the prototype and give it to him.
(Cut to the technical producer moving into the studio with a plush toy, mini leather trenchcoat and all, handing it to Blades somewhat tentatively. Blades finishes his drink and examines the toy counterpart.)
Jack of Blades: Cute. I know just who to give it to.
(And as we have our final cut, we see the somewhat hideous doll resting on the doorplace of the welcome home that Jack visited on Slam. It’s cute little neighbourhood and middle class lifestyle. All this revolves around a sick little doll with a sick little set of phrases designed to taunt and twist the psyche’s of our children. All with the name tag, ‘To Jade…’)
