Dude...we're gettin' the band back together!

Every now and then an opportunity comes along that doesn’t require much thought regarding whether or not to seize it. I got a call yesterday from a friend of mine from when I lived in Plattsburgh NY. He is one half of a set of twins a year younger than I. I was 13 when I left there, so I obviously didn’t get to witness or take part in their adolescence and young adulthood. Their history from then until now has always been a mystery. I knew they were into music, because they both had guitars. I never heard them play a note, but it was obvious these guys were into music in a profound way. They always seemed ahead of the curve somehow, and I credit them with turning me onto music that I would have probably otherwise overlooked. Around that time, radio was sodden with the likes of Huey Lewis, Corey Hart, Cindy Lauper, Hall & Oates, Lionel Richie, et al. At the time, that was okay because when you’re twelve, you can listen to that kind of stuff and not get too much flak for it; your peers were listening to it as well.

Then came the day when they let me borrow a videotape that, without the risk of exaggeration, changed my life.

I don’t know from where they recorded it, but it was a compilation of videos by what was soon to be referred to as hair bands. The first video was Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It” (with the first ten seconds cut off), and from then until the end of the tape, I was completely riveted. “Hair bands”, as I’ve covered in other posts, have become a tragically comical chapter in the history of music. I will wholeheartedly admit that there were as many bad ones as good; bad in that the technical prowess was there, but it was buried in painfully trite lyrics and an image that was pure caricature. The good ones, who have actual craft to their songs, unfortunately get lumped in with the bad and get written off as greasy kid stuff.

After watching that tape, there was no turning back for me; no more B100 with its pre-recorded DJ spinning “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go” at precisely 6:15 every morning; no more listening to WIRY AM radio, hoping to make an on-air request for Air Supply, sent out to your sweetheart. Nope, I was officially reprogrammed musically. All I cared about were Mötley Crüe, RATT, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and Twisted Sister. Laughable to most now, sure, but…what were YOU doing when you were twelve?

I digress.

Right after my “rebirth”, I found out we were moving from Plattsburgh. My communication with the twins ceased for good. However, due to the internet making the world smaller and smaller, they found me a couple years ago. Communication with them has been sporadic, as they live on the left coast and I on the right. I’ve gotten a tiny glimpse of that they were up to after I moved, but there are still tremendous gaps. All I know is that they were in a band together for awhile with a modicum of success.

The call I got yesterday was to tell me that their band is reforming for a two-show stint in Plattsburgh late July, and would I be interested in playing bass. I pretty much had my mind made up before I even hung up, but didn’t give an answer until I gave it even more thought. My answer was yes. I’ll keep you all posted when I find out the details.

Heel.

It occurred to me that I hadn’t posted about the benefit show I did with my friend Bob’s band a couple weeks ago. This was an annual benefit held at a country club, and it was being held to raise money for an animal shelter. It was a catered affair, and as is usually the case, dinner was served as I was setting up. That meant that I spent the night pretty much famished. By the time I was finished warming up, there was only a plate of cookies left. My first instinct was to grab a fistful of those fiiine-looking cookies and throw them down my neck minutes before we started, but I abstained because I remembered a very similar situation from about 1 1/2 years ago.

While playing at a conference in DC, I suddenly became very hungry. During a break I foraged for some nourishment, and all I found was a platter of cookies. I had no choice but to indulge in about 63,732 empty calories. Then I had beer. My pancreas and liver duked it out for the rest of the night and it was a rollercoaster ride of sensations, the most intense of which was fatigue. I just couldn’t concentrate anymore and started making mistakes. Stupid ones. Lesson learned.

At this benefit, I decided it was better to starve than throw my chemistry into that whirlwind again. Of course, playing on an empty stomach also made me a cheap date because all I needed was a solitary beer for the entire two hours we played. The show itself was good enough; people started dancing almost immediately and we were very much appreciated.

There’s something that is guaranteed when one is in a cover band, however: requests. They just come with the territory. When one has been in a cover band or bands long enough, there are standard requests that you can pretty much bank on, usually “Brown-Eyed Girl”, “Brown Sugar”, “Mustang Sally”, something bluesy, and usually some Beatles. These are to be expected, and if you’re going to play in this kind of band, you have to accept the fact that people will want to hear something familiar. Familiar to an audience member is more often than not a dagger in a musician’s side because chances they are they’re sick of hearing it and also sick of playing it. But again, that’s the nature of the business. If you’re going to complain about it, it’s clearly the time to get out.

Another curious “feature” is that when a request is made, it’s usually while in the middle of a song. An audience member will walk up to whoever in the band is most easily accessible, and they’ll yell in your ear “do you guys know ____?” One such request which I had the dubious pleasure of fielding was “do you guys know ‘It’s Raining Men’?” In no way was I ready for that request. It was all in slow-motion, and as the woman approached me, I was going through the extensive list of possibilities from which she’d pull a song. I never saw that one coming, and quite involuntarily, I laughed aloud right in her face. Visibly crestfallen, she slowly backed away, and I felt just awful about it. The mere notion of four heterosexual, middle-aged men hired to play blues-rock covers, playing “It’s Raining Men”, well, it just threw me for a loop and I laughed out of context in this poor woman’s face. That incident reminded me why I don’t do cover bands anymore.

The animals, the actual stars of the show, emerged victorious. A good deal of money was raised that night.

Northern New Year

In mid December, my comrade and fellow Rogue, Bob, asked me if I’d be interested in subbing on bass for his other band, Section 8, on New Year’s Eve. Evidently their bassist couldn’t do it, and the show was already booked. I actually stood to make a decent buck (a first for me in the 20+ years I’ve been playing), lodging would be provided, and I didn’t have any plans for New Year’s Eve anyway. I consulted my bride, and she was rather excited by the prospect. I told Bob yes, and we got to rehearse three times.

The gig was to take place at a funky little joint in Westbrook, Maine called the Frog and Turtle. The drive up was thankfully a smooth one. The threat of a snow storm had been looming for the past day and a half, but it turned out to only be just that: a threat. We checked into the hotel, hung out for about an hour, and then headed over to the restaurant to load in and do a sound check. We were lucky in that we had a very receptive and enthusiastic sound guy. I met a lot of people very quickly that night, so I unfortunately forget his name (Chris?) and many others. After we finished sound check, I met the chef and co-owner, James Tranchemontagne. As the British would say, he’s a lovely bloke. We didn’t get to chat much because he was in the middle of preparing the feast for the night. The deal was that people would buy tickets in advance and enjoy dinner, cocktails, entertainment, ringing in the New Year, and more cocktails. I met a woman named Claire who I believe was the hostess, and she was a lovely lass.

We headed back to the hotel and were to return at 9:30. After a quick burrito (surprise, surprise), we got all tarted up and headed back to the restaurant. We went on promptly at 9:45, and just rocked the joint until about 1:30. We did a hell of a lot better than I thought we would, people danced pretty much all night, and I had an excellent time. I brought a camera with me to use that night, but Boy Genius left it at the hotel.

Playing out was great, and seeing people groove on it was even better. But one of the highlights of the evening was actually after everyone left. I finally got to chat it up with James and the rest of the staff (SO sorry I forget your names, guys!), and man, what an incredibly cool bunch of people. James gave us many complimentary beers (one was even called Santa’s Butt), and as I was famished by night’s end, I asked James if he had any bread. I would’ve been satisfied with a leftover slice from someone’s table, but he instead gave me a beautiful loaf of homemade artisan bread. Nice! I told him that I grew up in a restaurant and would love to have a look around. He was happy to oblige.

All of the staff were incredibly gracious and showered us with accolades. In the music biz, one is typically overwhelmed by competition and insincerity. Playing in a Boston band is even more trying because it’s a small town and there are approximately 2,687,902 bands all competing to play the same places, and there aren’t many places. When one does get the opportunity (and this goes for any band I’ve ever played in), no matter how good you are, the audience will typically either just stand at the bar or stare at you with their arms crossed. It’s a leaden feeling of…judgment. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, because it keeps one humble and instills the desire to work even harder to win them over.

But in Maine, it’s a different story entirely. We were treated like The Greatest Thing Since Napkins. Evidently there’s a serious deficit of live bands, let alone bands that play something danceable. On top of that, reliability is also an issue. We were put on a pedestal that night, and I ain’t gonna lie; I LOVED IT. It’s a sensation everyone wants but so few actually get. It’s also very easy to get spoiled by it. I was spent from the evening and well into my cups, so I bid them adieu and talked about the night incessantly afterward. It was the best New Year’s I’ve had since…wow, it may just be the best, period.

I didn’t get to sample a morsel of what they were serving that night because I was onstage the whole time or draining pitcher after pitcher of water, but it all looked incredible. Check ‘em out if you’re in the Portland area.

Prodigy

October 31, 1978

Seven-year-old, Peter Criss-looking bassist searching for band. Have pro attitude (refer to picture for example of conviction in performance), and pro gear including stringless plywood guitar and camera tripod microphone. Looking for like-minded individuals who like KISS, Micronauts, and snow cones. Please submit picture of Micronauts.

No freaks.

Barnstorming

Something else that makes me kind of wistful this time of year? Thoughts of my very first real band: Until the End.

We had started in the fall, but by this point in the year, things were really starting to pick up musically and socially. We were a trio, with a female vocalist/guitarist with great pipes and strong songwriting, her powerhouse brother on drums, and me: a huge-maned, bashful 17-year-old on bass.

At fifteen, I bought a cheap bass to play along with my guitarist older brother. We played twelve-bar blues and the odd Zeppelin song, but beyond that, I’d never really ventured outside of the safety of the family room. That would change forever one day at lunch in high school. I got a tip from an acquaintance of mine that he was living with a band that was looking for a bassist. I had met the drummer before; but I was merely an accessory to my older brother at that point. You see, the drummer was legendary in his drumming and personality, and that legend was rivaled only by the parties he threw. He moved to my town around the same time I did, and he wasted no time making a name for himself. His new living space was a dream come true, I would imagine, as adjacent to the house was a very large barn. A drummer’s Valhalla. Almost immediately, he started jamming with whomever would drop by, and eventually my brother who had aspirations of singing started hanging around there as well. Naturally, as a 15-year-old, my conduit to the outside world was my older brother, so I got to tag along to some of these epic events.

The barn was very, very old. The upper floor would bounce precariously all night long as the crowds grew and grew, and the wiring in there was pretty sketchy with the old-fashioned exposed porcelain insulators. Its inner walls had exposed beams, and there were thousands of nails poking through from the outside. I vividly remember watching a guy at one of these legendary parties, completely polluted; falling into one of the walls, and a nail poked him right in the forehead. I pulled him back from the wall, took a good look at him to assess the damage, and watched a rivulet of blood leak from the puncture. I threw him over my shoulder and my brother and I drove him home. We ultimately left him on his lawn because we just weren’t sure what else to do about him. He lived.

I learned a lot that summer.

Fast forward a couple years to the lunch room conversation. I had seen the drummer play before, and in short, he was a god. Today he’d tell me what a silly bastard I am for thinking such a thing, but when you’re fifteen and you see a guy play drums with that kind of aptitude, he’s a god. End of story.

So here I am at seventeen, having really only noodled semi-seriously at home, playing to AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath records (yes, VINYL), with an opportunity to join an actual, honest-to-God band. In a move that still surprises me to this day, I accepted the invitation to audition. The surprise I’m speaking of is because I was SO green and hadn’t really ever played in a band before, and I was pretty sure I would get steamrolled and laughed out of the audition. I was quite convinced I had no business entertaining such an idea, but something pushed me along.

The acid test came, and there was neither any anxiety nor embarrassment. On the contrary, the brother and sister were totally patient and cool, even though they had credentials that outclassed me twenty fold. It seemingly ended as quickly as it started, and I was in. I was flying from that for a week. Right away we got down to rehearsing, and though we had a decent work ethic, the rehearsals were pretty loose. People were always coming and going to either listen, or more likely illegally quaff their beer in peace. The idea of a “closed practice” was bandied about from time to time, but it just never panned out. The bottom line was that the barn was just a great place to be. Loud, free rock and roll and a great vibe. At this point, I’m still the shy new kid and would remain that way for a long time. But I sure loved to people watch. And the cops. Man, the cops. They would show up because the lady across the street would call them every time. She was a music teacher, strangely enough.

The other beauty of the barn was that it wasn’t insulated. Snow would come in on occasion. We rehearsed upstairs, the most open part of the barn. It had a large drum riser, tapestries, spray-painted walls, lights, a million bottles and cigarette butts, and some shag-nasty couches. Frankly, it was heaven. However, heaven was also the same temperature inside as it was outside. We tried many methods of keeping the place warm, like using kerosene heaters and hanging The World’s Largest Afghan as a curtain to hold in the heat, but they were just decorations more than anything else. Playing gigs was exciting as hell for me, but moving our gear in and out of the barn most certainly was not, as it had insanely narrow and steep stairs that had claimed its fair share of victims over the years.

Now, am I wistful for hours of freezing my ass off? Hardly. But thanks to the passage of time, I can easily romanticize the whole thing and glaze over how difficult it was to muster up the motivation to essentially play music in a walk-in freezer for a couple hours, and trying to shake off the chill for the four hours after that. It was around Christmas that I finally started loosening up, and some very important friendships were forged that I still hold dear to this day. I distinctly remember the electric feeling, that I was part of something that would stick with me for the rest of my life. And it sure did. I had the foresight to record our rehearsals all the time. Without even realizing when I'm doing it, I usually revisit those rehearsals this time of year.

More of This.

You'll never hear him use one in the Downbeat 5, but you sure as shootin' will when in the Rogues.

Just seizing the opportunity to post a picture I dig. It's kinda like taking a peek into a secret lab. And, um, taking a picture of it...

It Was 99 Years Ago Today

Opera star Enrico Caruso is charged with an indecent act after allegedly pinching a woman's bottom in the monkey house of New York's Central Park Zoo.

Bass-O-Matic

So I’m looking for a new band. Or more accurately, another band to fill the void. The two band situations I have going on right now, well, they’re not going. One is an original band that writes in the vein of Gov’t Mule, ZZ Top, and Masters of Reality. The other band, also original, writes in the vein of Jeff Buckley meets Mother Love Bone.

The latter band was a happy accident. Two of the members are from a long-defunct band that I dreamed of being the bassist for. About a year and a half ago, I got a call from the drummer asking if I’d like to join the new band he had going on, and that the vocalist was rather Buckley-esque. Well, I love Jeff Buckley, and if the drummer and guitarist were on board, it had to be good. Well, it most certainly is. But it’s also extremely tentative. There are life commitments that as of late have kinda put the kibosh on things. But I’m not complaining. The reasons are all good. Beautiful, even.

The former band is a whole lot of fun, but the drummer is in another, MUCH more successful and audience-friendly original band. Think danceable punk fronted by a woman with great pipes. The guitarist has two other bands as well, one a cover band and the other a little jazz outfit. I’ve always been a little envious of those guys because their chops are always sharp due to playing all the time. My chops, what’s left of them, are as dull as a sack of wet mice. The reason for that is I don’t really practice at all because really, what’s the point? So I can be a bedroom virtuoso (easy now)?

Of course, that is a stunningly foolish reason not to practice. You practice to learn and improve. If you’re not practicing, you’re atrophying. And great googily moogily, have I ever atrophied. I let that happen because:

1. It’s summer and I don’t want to be indoors, practicing through headphones
2. I’m lazy
3. Reiterate #2

I’ve owned a bass for 19 (zoinks!) years now, and I’d say on average, I think of selling it all off and giving it up completely every .725 years. What stops me? The thought that winter’s gonna roll around and I’ll be boooooooored. Couple that with the fact that I’m super-irrational and my lady fair brings me back to ground level, and that’s why I still have a bass. So, when I have another fit of restlessness because of a lull, I think about getting rid of it all or joining another band to keep myself from doing something foolish.

That brings me to now. I put an ad up on the internet announcing my availability. Man, the tides sure have turned recently. For as long as I can remember, bassists were THE most sought-after band member (well, maybe second to vocalists). For as long as I’ve been playing, there’s always been work for a bassist. Lately it seems that I see more “bassist available” ads than the “wanted” ones. And I’m not talking about hacks like me, either. I’m talking about guys who play electric and upright, have music degrees, etc., and amazingly, they also have to resort to the same pedestrian means I do for landing a gig.

Joining a band is not all unlike any other kind of relationship. For the sake of immediate relation, I liken it to marriage. When you look for a band, you have to decide “am I going platonic or full-on lifetime commitment here?” Because really, it’s gonna matter sometime down the line.

Platonically, you have the cover/wedding bands. You know what’s expected of you, you’re playing other people’s music, you make people dance, you bring joy and often impart nostalgia. And you get paid. End of story. Do I consider it selling out? Hell no. In my eyes, if you’re playing music, something you love dearly, then good on you for being true to yourself. I actually have a great deal of respect for wedding bands because of the vast catalog they have to memorize, ready to honor the bride’s obscure request for “Angry Young Man” by Billy Joel (the keyboardist will have perma-grin from that moment on).

Matrimonially (yes, I know that word’s a stretch), you have original bands. Now, this is where your mettle REALLY gets tested. You know from the start that you’re going to lose more money than you make. Of course, money isn’t the goal, but it’s a HUGE bonus. To at least recoup the gas money you spent on the trip to play Ed’s Hoot ‘n’ Holler in Poughkeepsie for a 30-minute set through a horrific PA, playing to pretty much just the bartender and your significant other, well, that would be appreciated. There’s a very fine line between suffering for your art and just paying your dues. If you’re good enough and stick it out long enough, there will be dividends. But the band mortality rate is VERY high for this reason.

Then there’s the personality aspect. What will be the “leaving the cap off the toothpaste” that will cause infighting? Happens all the time. It could be that I reeeeeeally think that F# adds nicer tension and that the B is too predictable. Or that I think that guitar part would bite better if it were clean rather than overdriven. Or “Why do *I* always have to watch the gear?” Or “dude, your inebriated girlfriend used up all of the drink tickets AGAIN”. The list goes on and on.

But before you even get to that point, you have to find a band, then audition. This process has been simplified a little by the dawn of the internet. Really, there’s no reason for a band to not have MP3s anymore. The tools are out there, many of them very cheap if not free altogether. So, you get to listen right at your computer instead of trudging into town on a Tuesday night at 11:45 to hear the potential band, or bring all your gear to an audition to recognize immediately that there’s no way in hell you’re joining this band.

The part I’m having difficulty with is telling someone yes or no. How do you tell someone that the song they sent you, the one they wrote from the pit of the heart is just, well, trite? Or what they consider “rocking/melodic” is actually pretty boring and limp? I dunno. Email also tells a lot about where a person is coming from. I can’t help it. I’m a stickler for grammar. Nobody’s perfect, least of all me. But I can’t help but assume that someone who misspells every other word and has egregious syntax errors will be a really BAD drummer. But then there’s Tommy Lee, so go figure.

Auditions are funny because there are actually two happening simultaneously—I’m auditioning the band and they’re auditioning me. I hate auditions. But, such is life and this is how it’s done.

Stay tuned.

Day of the Retail Love-In

Not too much to report right now, but I figured I should post SOMEthing to keep my faithful reader(s) satisfied.

On Friday night, Bob and I headed back the the church to finish up the guitar tracks for the Rogues album. It was another late-night session that was made even better by the most pleasant surprise appearance of Jefelefe. Seeing him and Laulau is always an event to be treasured.

As usual, Bob was a total trouper, bending to my insistence on doing "just one more take, Ol' Bean". Hundreds of times. All I have to do is sit there, coax the talent, push buttons and tweak knobs, so Bob's the one who'd ultimately leave the church with shredded fingers and flattened cilia in his ear (the other one's pretty much already gone completely). But that's how he likes it. I did a quick mixdown on Saturday, and the instrumentals are now done: Le Petit Mort, Hottentot (a John Scofield tune), and Jugular.

So, now we move onto vocals. Hopefully we can pull that together within the next couple weeks. All in all, for having done all this on a 4-track, I've gotta say that it sounds really good. Very rich and organic. Amazingly, I didn't make any of them too bass-heavy. One of my favorite parts in this process is making the album cover.

Toodles.

P.S. Rest in peace, Casey.

Who Who in the What What?

I spent Sunday and Monday recording my bass tracks at home for the new Rogues album. Since I dwell in a condo, I don’t have the luxury of tracking the bass by miking my 8x8 cabinet and diming it. No, I have to employ the Oh-So-Rock-&-Roll Method of taking a line out of the head, running it into the board direct, and listening through headphones. Ah well. My Les Paul sounds great direct, so no big deal.

Now, I take pretty good care of my ears, I think. I wear earplugs when we practice and even when I vacuum (shop vacs, anyway). I’ve always maintained that it would be a cruel irony that the very thing I enjoy most could be mercilessly taken from me because that very thing also deafened me. But of course, that would be my own damned fault. Knowing this, I am especially conscious of not having the volume up too high in the headphones because I have no protection whatsoever. I did pretty well with the volume overall. However, what happens is that as the hours progress and you listen to take after take after take, your ears start to play tricks on you and you start to miss things.

I reached a point where I just couldn’t believe anything that I heard anymore. I was having bouts of, well, auditory hallucination. I had a few incidents of “my God, did I REALLY play that?” It didn’t sound at all like that as I was laying it down!” The problem was that my ears were suffering from a condition that I have coined Sonic Inebriation. That’s right. My ears were drunk. They just couldn’t take in any more information. Plus, I think I was just WAY too geeked on copious amounts of Babs’s Rollercoaster Roasters® coffee. Two straight days of that will definitely make your nerves fuzzy, and your colon...anxious. Moving on.

Another good example of the drunken ear theory is that Bob asked me to make him a CD of the basic tracks. He wants to study them during the week so he’ll be prepared for his tracking duties this weekend. So after probably 8 straight hours of recording and listening yesterday, I just did a quick mixdown of the drums and bass to hand off at rehearsal last night. As it was recording down to tape, I remember thinking that the bass seemed especially heavy.

“Oh well, too late to change it now. I’m sure it’ll probably be fine.”

On the drive down to the Treehouse for rehearsal, I popped the tape in. I could barely make out the bass, but I simply attributed it to my bass, amp head, and pedal case blocking the rear speakers. Plus, I was in my Metro, which, as a 14-year-old, 3-cylinder econobox with no sound insulation, is FREAKISHLY loud on the highway. It’s simply mad.

When I arrived, I piped the tape into the PA to give Eric and Bob a sampling. Good God. It was one of the brassiest, most bass-devoid mixes I had ever done. It was embarrassing, and I was a little worried that confidence was shaken in regard to my production abilities. It was only intended to be a reference, but even the worst references paled to this sonic turd. Anyone who knows production (on any level) knows that you simply do NOT record and mix the same day. No matter how proficient you think you are and what a keen set of ears you have, you’ll be wrong. A set of fresh, rested ears is a moral imperative for a good mixdown. What a difference 12 hours makes.

So if you’re reading this Bob, sorry about the Mental Patient Mixdown (sounds like techno for the deranged)!

Ciao for niao.

Rocking the Big Man's House

This past Saturday the Rogues descended upon on a church (Puritan, I believe?) in Hanson to lay down tracks for our next album. Fueled by just silly amounts of Babs’s own “Rollercoaster Roasters” blend of kick-ass coffee (you could literally hear our eyelids slam open), we just dove right in after setting up the Treehouse Mobile Studio®. Eric’s drums were pretty well soaked from the ride over to the church due to torrential downpour and no cap on his truck, but they didn’t seem any worse for wear because they just sounded HUGE and crisp in the church. We had him “facing the congregation”, sandwiched right between the pulpits. We mic’d the entire kit and also had a few ambient mics going to give some size and air to the drums. As it turned out, the ambients weren’t really necessary because the sound we got naturally was pure “When the Levee Breaks”. Awwwwww yeeeeeeeeeeeeah..

After tracking a couple of the songs, we took a break to displace the ludicrous amounts of caffeine in our blood with some actual nutrients. Eric and I did a little exploring and he quickly found himself manning the church’s pipe organ. Man, I had no idea those organs were so complicated. In no way qualified to drive such a thing, all I could do was sit at it and marvel at the vast amounts of knobs, switches, and pedals. I’m impressed by anyone who can play piano with a modicum of aptitude. But to anyone who can pilot a church organ effectively, I bow to you.

I felt like a little kid in this place. It’s a HUGE church, and I still maintain that there are few things creepier than a church basement. It’s about 250 years old, but has been very well maintained. I haven’t frequented many churches in my life, but this one was rather handsome compared to the ones I *have* been in. And as I mentioned to Eric, you know you’re in a church when all you can smell is old wood and coffee.

As far as the recording, all we tracked was Eric’s drums after quaffing more of Babs's rocket fuel. In the past we just all played live to tape, and although it can be great for vibe, it gets problematic if someone makes a mistake because then the then you have to start over completely. So over the next couple weeks, we’ll be tracking the other stuff. The songs we've chosen (in no particular order) are:

Chelsea Woman
Cherry Red
Le Petit Mort
Jugular
Live the Life
Goin' Out West
Hottentot
4-Day Creep...so watch this space.

Ciao for niao.