It happened. They showed up early, shed buckets of sweat, and left a penny richer.
Saturday started with brass. All at once we miked the instruments and rolled tape. Rhythms were cut, cues were hit, and dynamics danced out across the ring. After 90 minutes track one was done, five more remained. We didn't break. We blistered. And without AC, every note was earned--the trumpet player collapsed after a high-pitched trill. Thank you Aaron Priskorn, Greg Stephens, and Jonathan Seiberlich for executing a standup-and-cheer performance and enduring my hairy demands.
Reeds closed the hot day. Prancing in with pleasurable pomp, the very versatile clarinet rang out like the beginning measures of a doomsday march. We froze in our seats, and basked in the timbres. Then before we knew it he was done, like a late night rendezvous he was gone before the relationship could even begin. Thank you Jonathan Szin. You are a tease.
Sunday brought out the circus demons. 2 out of 4 circus performers showed up to scream. They came glum. They left gory. Between the heartbroken Deanna Hammond and the monkey man Ross Davis, the screams rent the air. I’m still having nightmares.
Vocals closed the day. The tenor/hired choirboy came in from another country, or another musical planet. He strapped on his character’s shackles and leaped back and forth from psychopath to tortured soul, measure by measure, until the topsy-turvy last call for help was sang out over a cacophonous bed of chords. Thank you Samuel Faustine. You made my neck hair stand straight up.
Recording drums and mixing come in a couple of weeks. The animal skins are still being stretched and the sticks are still being sharpened.
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