We’re finally done recording at Timber Trails (YAY/Thank GOD) and Mike and I have moved our recorded tracks East. We’ve been invited to mix* our album in Whitney Houston’s home studio in Mendham, New Jersey. So far there’s no sight or sign of “The Voice,” and El Blanco thinks there’s little chance we’ll run into her over the next three weeks. “It’s probably better that way,” I tell him, “I’d no doubt embarrass us both with my fawning all over her.” The grounds are impeccable. The studio walls are a rich purple and the luxurious leather sofas are white as snow. We spent the morning moving into our new studio (much relieved to be out of Chris Wright’s, Timber Trails) and the afternoon preparing to mix.

Preparation for mixing involves a laborious process of inventorying each track, adjusting settings, checking tones, and notching pesky frequencies.* A loud 2K feedback rings out of the monitors.

I imagine this is what an ant’s amplified death cry sounds like. The ring stops temporarily before piercing the air again … and again … and again until that damn ring has found a home in my left ear.

It’s the sound of silver
It’s traffic
It’s the sensation of biting into an overly frozen raspberry popsicle with your back teeth
It’s tinsel
It’s nasal spray
It’s too much coffee
It’s the sound of exes echoing complaints years after their last fight
It’s annoying.

As a means of defense, I have a full bottle of Bach Rescue Remedy in my purse (now half empty), essential oils, chocolate, a picture of my brother, my knitting, and most importantly, earplugs.

Footnotes:

• Mixing: Mixing a record happens once all parts (drums, bass, guitar, strings, horns, vocals, etc.) are recorded. It is the process of balancing various elements of each song to ensure they complement each other. It includes balancing levels, panning, EQing, adding effects, automation, and creating cohesion to shape the final sound and prepare the album for mastering (the final polish before distribution).
• Notching Frequencies: Eliminating unwanted frequencies that can muddy the mix or cause issues. This process includes identifying and reducing frequencies that may cause problems, such as feedback, resonance, or muddiness. This fine-tuning ensures clarity and a cleaner sound.

There was a party at the studio Saturday night.
It was warm on the terrace overlooking the lit-up treasure chest of downtown. The city lights were corrugated by heat waves pouring from the mouth of the studio’s open doors. People, in silhouette, spilled onto the veranda to smoke cancer sticks and make out with strangers.

Everyone I knew was there though it wasn’t my party. There’s no way in HELL I’d throw a party in the studio. The chance of someone spilling a drink on a computer, moving a knob on the soundboard or tripping over a power cable, guitar, or storage drive was way toooooo great. But no one was asking me. This was Chris Wright’s studio and according to him, he was “damn well going to have a party at his house if he damn well pleased.” Apparently, he didn’t mind putting our work in jeopardy and I vowed this album would be the last I recorded at Sky Trails Studio.

Partygoers were adorned in the latest Urban Outfitters had to offer. Girls entered the house giggling then grimaced as they noticed the other bodies wearing their same sequined dresses. Luckily, though my publicist Ariel and I, had been to Urban Outfitters earlier, looking for what the invitation called for (Whimsical Attire) we found nothing inspiring and instead, opted for hoodies and sweatpants as a form of silent rebellion against the party. Frankly, I was only going to keep an eye on the equipment and to make sure no one walked with our instruments.

“NO DRINKS PAST THIS POINT” read the sign outside the control room and I breathed a sigh of relief. Chris had promised he’d post this for me and I felt grateful. But inside… were drinks! and people listening to our rough takes with Chris Wright at the helm pushing all the soundboard buttons and twisting Michael’s carefully adjusted knobs. Drunk people were playing my guitar while their dogs jumped all over the strings. IN THE CONTROL ROOM and I felt completely out of control.

But it had been a long, successful day leading up to this point —the kind of day that has the power to take your mind off a broken heart. The kind that affords you the luxury of brushing off a blatant slight. I’d woke to a message from Kyle Comerford agreeing to be our new drummer. This was a huge relief after a long, arduous search. Kyle is a gem, our first pick from a lineup of 10 players we auditioned. He’ll pick up from Brian once the record is done. Tom Rush called later in the morning to invite me to tour this summer with his production company “Club 47” which is a huge opportunity. And in the afternoon, I’d recorded some songs for The Farrelly Brother’s new movie, Me Myself and Irene, at a studio downtown. I was honored that my buddy Pete Farrelly wanted me on his production and at his request, recorded a handful of Steely Dan songs and a Beverly Breemer’s tune called “Don’t Say You Don’t Remember.” I’m not sure any of them are good enough to make it onto the movie but recording with Soucy in a different studio for a different project was a great distraction from my heartache.

Despite the many glorious, uplifting events of the day, the party made me tired. My exhaustion was fueled by Chris Wright’s blatant disrespect for Michael’s and my hard work, drinks teetering on the soundboard, dogs humping my guitar, and the sad, soundless strum in my chest of missing Kipp. As people began to fade into chemically induced slumbers, Ariel and I faded too — down the switchbacks in the snowy driveway, down through the stoic, sentinel pines, and back into the melted, gold puddle of lights shining brightly against the horizon.

Gretchen Wigan, a massage therapist who does intuitive touch on both Kipp and me, was working on my legs Wednesday when she mentioned, “I’m picking up relationship energy really strongly in your ankles.” Her room was a womb – dark, warm and soothing. A candle flickered in the corner. She continued, “If you stay in this relationship, you’re gonna lose yourself.” The statement was bold and rang true from my feet to my head. The words she gave breath to were already beating in my heart (and apparently my ankles) when she said them.

I’ve been folding my life into his for the better part of two years despite knowing, days after we hooked up while on an ecstasy trip in Crested Bute’s backcountry, we were probably wrong for one another. But by then, I already adored him—his humor, his strength, his heart, his sense of adventure, and his generosity and it wasn’t just the ecstasy talking. Of course, he was out of my wheelhouse. I’d never dated someone so blatantly alpha — so macho, bold, and self-assured. Perhaps, I remember thinking at the time, I should go against my instincts and date against my grain. Maybe the guys I’m intrinsically attracted to have all been wrong for me because I have a bad picker. But nearly two years in, the love was bleached out of our relationship and my insecurities had magnified tenfold. Though Kipp is a glorious soul and fun as all hell, the light he shines on my character leaves me feeling so broken that I grow more and more convinced I’m lucky that Kipp even puts up with me. Of course, I don’t blame him solely for my insecurities. The smoldering embers of my unworthiness were with me way before Kipp came on the scene. I only mean that his presence amplifies my self-doubt and leaves me feeling hopeless.

And now my ankles were screaming for Gretchen to say what my heart had failed to convince me. It was time for this to be over. He wore a faceless expression on his bald head. “Come here,” I beamed with a smile across a universe of emotions. I held him when I said, “Maybe we should think seriously about whether we want to stay together.” He knew this was coming. It had been a cold slap through the phone when I’d asked if I could come over to talk about the health of our relationship.

“I’m sure I want to stay together, “Kipp said robotically, muffled into the crook of my elbow. I swallowed hard and spoke from my ankles when I finally owned my long-resisted truth
“Then, I guess, I mean, I guess I need to think seriously about whether I want to stay with you.” It was painful and I don’t know which bothered me more—that I was burning a bridge I’d help build, or hurting someone I loved deeply and truly.

“It seems to me,” I continued, “That we’re driving each other crazy and have been for a while. It’s hard to know whether we’re growing from the pain we’re causing one another, or just chipping away at what’s essential in each other. You know?” He didn’t know.

I drove away through the canyon through tears, to the studio where the hours trickled by. The slow ones itched. The fast ones bled. I couldn’t mention the breakup to the rest of the band. Some of them are Kipps housemates and at best it would only be a distraction— one we couldn’t afford at the rate we’re tracking. I floated amongst my bandmates like gristle in an otherwise healthy soup. Back in my office of a bathtub, I found the misery that loves company, very lonely inside of me.

We worked on vocals the rest of the day. We’d been working on them all week. The one exception was when Maceo Parker (James Brown’s saxophone player) came to the studio on Super Bowl Sunday to lay down tracks on “Dvoren” and “Forty Years.” What an honor! I knit him a hat to say thank you when he refused any other form of payment. He promptly regifted it to his manager Natasha.

After 10 hours of working on the vocal track for, “For Kim,” Michael and I agreed we needed a break from sound and went to town for dinner. As we drove through the dark canyon, shadows of pines raced out of the way of our headlights. Up ahead in the valley, airplanes looked like fireflies dancing over Denver’s International Airport.

Mike and I sat across from one another in a dark booth over Vietnamese food trying to explain why recording has been moving at a snail’s pace. The album release date* (April 15th) is a mere two months away, and from the corner booth at Chez Thuy, that time frame seems ridiculously ambitious if not straight up hilarious. The budget, well we’ve long since gone over that. But how is it, working 12-hour days – 7 days a week, we’re not further along by now? I don’t mention that I think Michael’s chewing habits are a metaphor for the pace of our production as he digs into a plate of banh xeo. We’re both exhausted and on top of that, I’m sad.

Back at the studio with fresh ears and a full belly, I find myself back in my bathtub, trying to psych myself up to sing another take of “For Kim” when my heart wants to shatter. I don’t know whether to call Kipp or let it lie. I recline in the empty, porcelain tub asking my Magic 8 Ball for answers. It’s reply? “Ask again later” and “Better not tell you now.”

FOOTNOTES:

*Release date- The projected date of an album release after all the elements have been completed: 1. Preproduction 2. Recording 3. Mixing 4. Album Artwork 5. PR campaign 6. Mastering 7. Booking the promotional tour 8. Pressing the CD 9. Sending merchandise to retail

The suede pants I dropped off at the dry cleaners on Monday are no longer suede. They’re more cardboard than leather and I ask them why?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” the owners say in unison.
“So why is the stain I brought them in for, still there?”
“Oh, that’s a catsup stain, that won’t come out of those pants,” They say laughing as though I’d asked them how to get to Mars by bus.
“OK,” I say calmly, “so why is the hemline all taken out and shredded like that?”
“It was that way when you brought them in,” they say as though they’d rehearsed their bit 100s of times. I pay them their $24 dollars and drive my cardboard pants to the studio in my Rav 4 Toyota feeling robbed as though someone stole my favorite memory and insisted it was theirs all along.

We finished guitar on “Forty Years” in the morning and moved on to “Dvoren,” which, after 5 hours, we decided we didn’t want guitar on. Despite our chaos and indecisiveness, I felt relaxed in the studio for the first time in ages. With a full night of sleep under my belt, I could’ve recorded forty more songs. But I could tell El Blanco was stressed. Every other word he uttered was followed by a deep, lonesome sigh. He cracked his neck every half an hour or so, cupping his skull and chin in his bony white hands and turning his head like it were a stuck jam jar lid. He admitted to wishing things (guitar) were moving along quicker but neither of us could legitimize picking up the pace. Speeding up the recording process means slowing down the mixing process. Being less finicky about guitar tones means not having the best track possible.

“We just have to let go of this whole time thing,” I suggested sitting cross-legged on the floor with one reassuring hand on his knee. The electronics buzzed a furious hum and a magenta mote of carpet swirled around my teal, velvet skirt. We stared at the ground like a developing picture in a dark room. Finally, Michael agreed we needed to loosen up our reigns on the calendar, cracked his neck again, and sighed.

In the late afternoon we worked the wah-wah pedal into “One Step,” a song about confronting fears; taking one step into the unknown, finding strength in weakness, and giving yourself to the abyss. When I wrote it, the image in my head was of Wile E. Coyote suspended in the air.
The roadrunner’s scratched a line in the dirt which he’s crossed over again and again until he realizes he’s been tricked into walking off a ledge and stands suspended in the air with no ground beneath him. But, curiously, he doesn’t fall until he realizes there’s no ground.

That cartoon taught me that falling, floating, and flying are all the same action; it’s the fear that “no ground” means “down” that makes me “fall.” But I don’t have to, and that’s what the song is about – taking one first step out into the middle of the air, into the mystery, letting go of the fear that makes “no ground” mean “fall” and, instead, deciding it means “fly.”

The song is a reminder to me to lose control, and in the chaos, find freedom.

It’s snowing. The light outside is blue. The horizon is dismissed for the day and it’s quiet, the way a bath is after the faucet’s turned off. Deer wade across the wide white landscape —calm as velvet when it’s running the same way. I wasn’t going to write today — frankly, there’s been little to write about.

We dubbed Michael White, “El Blanco,” this week because ‘Blanco’ is his last name in Spanish and because Mike’s skin is whiter than milk, a consequence of working in studios all his life. El Blanco is skinny too (no correlation to his new moniker) due in no small part to the calories he burns eating. He insists on chewing every single bite 32 times to promote digestive health. It’s not the only reason but, no doubt, has contributed to the two days it’s taken to get the right guitar tone for “Split Decisions,” A song I wrote a couple weeks ago. Every chew chews into studio time. “Do you think we’re still on target to finish the record by February?” I ask El Blanco between bits of tabbouleh. He doesn’t want to speak with his mouth full and by the time he’s done chewing we’ve both forgotten my question.

Chris Soucy sits atop a wooden swivel, bar-chair trying not to move or breathe. The slightest gesture could be disastrous to the recording process and might completely change the tone he and El Blanco have worked so hard to find. None of our patience can afford that. We’re tired, and our ears hurt from having to hear the same song over and over for two days straight. So, Chris sits dutifully like a stuffed sparrow on his perch. He remains expressionless except for moments he looks disappointed, after a take when El Blanco turns to him and says, “Try it again.” The room is hot; the control room electronics heat it up all day until we’re in tank tops and shorts and still sweating. It’s dark too because we’ve been too focused on tone to notice it’s becoming night.

Hours slip away under the music. We forget to pee, we forget to turn on lights, we forget to eat (and I’m not about to remind El Blanco!!!) My role is pretty much to sit on the wall-to-wall, parsley-colored rug — back against the paprika-painted paneling — listening, disapproving, listening again, suggesting alternatives, approving, and trying, unsuccessfully, to move things along. I do some calculations.

• “Split Decisions” is a 5-minute song
• There are twelve, 5 minutes in an hour
• We’ve worked on the song from 10 am to 10 pm the past two days
• That means we’ve heard “Split Decisions” approximately 1,440 times.

You’d think it would be almost impossible to like a song after that many listens, but miraculously we find ourselves humming it on our way home and more miraculous still, we find a way to still like each other.