Recording Album 2, The Story So Far...

Monday, November 02, 2009





What better way to begin the recording of our second opus than to have a group trip to The Three Boars at the bottom of the lane?

That’s right: no better way at all.

It had taken Dan and I four and a half hours of traffic tedium, lessened only by the ipod’s uncanny knack of only playing Cat Stevens in “Shuffle” mode, to get up to the farm from dear old Brighton.

Robin was bringing up the rear, as it were, without the aid of radio and was lightening his mood with podcasts concerning the arrival of the Russians during WW2. Perhaps the invasion of Russians could explain the traffic lockdown that seemed to hinder our every turn.

After a coupe of hours of looking at snare drums it was decided that a quick drive to Wymondham’s fish n’ chip shop was the best dinner option and following the onset of a mushy-pea driven coma the thought of “blowing the froth off a few” down the local was a delightful one.

We were roundly welcomed back into the fold by the locals and a splendid time was had by all, although proprietor, Tony, took exception to Robins use of the word “Knackers” and rang the swear bell twice. He didn’t seem to object to the words “Fuck” or “Wankers” but, then, perhaps he didn’t hear. It’s by the by, but Adi Vines once spent eighteen pounds in the swear jar of the Boars in one night due to his elaborate use of Victorian English. On returning a few days later he said, “Look, I’m sorry about all the language the other night. Am I back to a clean slate?” and when he was answered with, “Yes, yes, of course you are” he could only reply, “Thank fuck for that”.

And so to bed. Early start and all that.


Day one.

There’s never going to be an awful to report on the first day of a recording session or, “Set up day”, as the professional terminology dictates.

Drums are tuned, microphones are put in place, vast quantities of tea are consumed. The American band who vacated the premises only minutes earlier had seen fit to leave behind a plate of cinnamon dusted pastries that their singer had baked. Very kind. They also left a bottle and a half of very reasonably priced red wine, which will be given a particularly good home, don’t you worry about that.

As I type this, Robin can be heard banging the bejesus out of his drums. They’re getting the levels all sorted. There must be something I ought to be doing. Well, I suppose that kettle’s not going to boil itself.


Day two.

Eggs all round for the early realisation that the clocks have gone back. “So it's actually only half nine?” asks a slightly miffed-out-of-an-extra-hour-in-bed Robin. He finds a pair of Shakademus (pliers) to put his not inconsiderable plumbing skills to the test for the upstairs bathroom. Only moments earlier I had discovered that the bath/ shower setting was stuck to “shower” when I received a cold jet of water to the back of the head whilst leaning over the tub to prepare my morning plunge. I know you’re only supposed to spend a nano-second in the shower these days in the spirit of saving the world and all that, but I’ve always been more of a bath man, truth be known. I don’t want to open a can of eco-warrior worms here, but as my friend Wayne once said, “I’m not entirely sure that the world is immediately going to turn into an uninhabitable fireball just because The Kaiser Chiefs have left their phone chargers plugged in”. Wise words, indeed.

Rich and I head to the supermarket to pick up the requisite bits and bobs for dinner. As I climb into the Mondeo Rich is sat, one hand on the wheel, the other stretched, father-like, over the back of the headrest as he listens to the theme tune from Superman. That’s just how he rolls.

We get "spotted" in Sainsbury's by a chap who's still got the sticker informing us of his waist and leg measurements stuck on the back of his jeans. Didn’t have the heart to tell him, of course.

On our return we get cracking and everything comes together with remarkable ease. It seems that all the pre-production we've done is paying off rather well.

The hours whip by and before we know it, it's dinnertime.

I knock up a rather spectacular chilli-con-quornay accompanied by my award winning garlic chiabatta and a glass of the three-for-a-tenner wine we’ve become partial to. I like cooking for grateful mouths. "That was great, Tobes," says Robin, "Mind you, I was so hungry I would have eaten any old shit". Ever the gracious dinner guest.

Finishing up for the night at the stroke of twelve, it’s a final glass of châteaux le "on offer", a bit of a debrief and a contented crawl up the stairs to a welcome bed.


Day three.

After a morning of bashing the shit out of yet another rock masterpiece, we relax, briefly, with an episode of River Cottage. For those of you that haven’t had the pleasure, it’s some of the better things about England comfortingly wrapped around a cooking programme, like a tweed sleeping bag with a hot water bottle at the toe end. The bedraggle haired Hugh Fearnly-Whittingstall presents.

"I like Hugh" intones Rich.

"I like you too" I reply.


We pop our heads out of the studio to discover a delivery of cakes and gifts, which is rather lovely. Now all we need is a good storm so that we can go into storm-cake shutdown for a few hours.

No storm turns up, but Dougal (assistant to the stars) cooks a spectacularly hot vegetable curry utilising the delights of the Scotch Bonnet Pepper. Not for the faint hearted, I tell thee. Dan virtually ruins his dinner with an extra sprinkling of freshly chopped chilies and is forced to eat ice cream to lessen the pain. I reckon he did it just as an excuse to eat the ice cream, myself. Luckily, however, he has the comfort of a velour cushion named Shakira (No, I don’t know either) to lessen the blow and we head back into the control room sweating like a weight-watchers trampette-workout convention.

The trickiest of the songs are laid down today, we're right on schedule and confidence levels are running high.

Dan, Robin and I end up giggling around the kitchen table until 2am. Goodnight all and to all, a goodnight.


Day four.

I awake to one of those mornings cold enough to make you count to three before you let your feet touch the ground. I tell myself, out loud, that I must pull the rug closer to the bed to avoid unnecessary contact with the floorboards.

I can tell you right now that I will absolutely not get around to this, no matter how cold my toes.

A breakfast of Marmite and cheese on toast washed down with a piping hot coffee later and we set sail into the quickest paced number on the record. We nail it in minimal takes despite Kenny, the studio dog, jumping all over the sofa and putting Rich and I right off our chops.

"Right, that's it. I'm gonna have a Satsuma." Rich suggests.

"Oh mate, don't even go there," interjects Robin, "I tried one earlier. I was wearing more of it than I ate and there was about nine pips in every bleedin' segment."

Yet again, those little orange orbs have ruined his day.


"Going Under", the song we previewed at Download festival during the summer, is one of the grooviest tracks on the album and one which finds us having to find and "sit in" the "pocket". Finding that pocket can be tricky when we’re in the control room and Robin's in the live room and levels are being moved up and down around you, occasionally all you can hear is the thwack of the strings. We end up re-arranging the control-room setup and not only find the trousers, but the pocket reveals itself and we all jump into it, rather than merely sitting.

In other news, a "gold star" merit system has been introduced for the assistants. So far Dougal is ahead due, in no small part, to his quite fabulous lasagne. Alan (Alex) suddenly lost his lead because he sat on Shakira.

Later that evening on seeing a bottle of wine on the table I misread to be called Vengeance, I am prompted to ask, “Whose is the Vengeance?”

“Vengeance is MINE!” declares Robster. Good gag. See.


Day five.

A particularly pretty autumnal morning sets us up to tackle the two, potentially, biggest moments on the record.

Robin awakes to a note from Dan, which reads: “Rock Lobster (Robin) I've run you a bath. D x". He's good like that.

It’s so hot that he devils his kidneys.

This seems to be a good thing for drums skills and Robin piles into those poor old tubs with all the venom of a scorned lady. Hell hath no fury, and all that.

The day is spent largely boshing the hell out of songs and a fog rolls in, outside, just as Robin sends his final crash, er, crashing to an end. The sudden quiet and still and mystery of a good fog reminds me of when I was about seven or eight years old and, on such nights, would be allowed to sit out the front of the house in a sleeping bag, on one of the plastic sun-beds that were so necessary in 80’s Brighton, peering out into the murky night aided only with a torch. Its single beam would be visible just like that scene in E.T. where Elliott first meets his new squat friend. I’d feel all deep and poetic. As much as a seven or eight year old can, any road.

Evocative stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree.

What’s E.T. short for?.

He’s only got little legs.


We watch a bit of football to wind down. Rich and I have a giggling fit when Robin shouts, “That’s it…come on the Chels!” despite his beloved Chelsea not actually playing.

I suggest that at some point we should get some footage of a football game and have Robin commentate on it for the website. Such pundit-like exclamations of, “Fuck’s sake, your ball bag could have scored from there!” and helpful shouts of, “Useless…fucking… WANKER!” should surely be aired for public consumption.


I collapse into bed full of childhood memories thinking about the next day’s fun.

It’s Toby day.

A day dedicated to the playing of the bass.

The spanking of the plank.

The melodic underpinning of the rhythm.

The bit that nobody really listens to.

The job that, as Paul McCartney has gone on record to say, is generally done by “Fat lads”.

Hooray for me!


Day six.

I go through the lock-up and pick out six or so bass guitars that we should try. Different planks for different needs, you see.

We opt to begin with the oldest one.

A delicious old Fender Jazz Bass. All blistered yellowing crème and played-in frets. Lush.

I don’t even try another bass.

The others just sit there like awkward children not picked to play on the team.

Fuck ‘em.

They’re shit.


By dinnertime I’ve nailed just over half the album.

No small feat when you consider that despite a lot more experimentation and actual writing going on during the recording of last record, it took three days to do the bass on Beero.

To be fair, though, I’m not very good.


Then Dan gets so excited about the proposition of mince pies that he falls over the mangler.


Day seven.

Strictly speaking it’s the last day a phase one.

Everything’s gone so well to plan that we’re all somewhat expecting something to go wrong. So far we haven’t had to call the paramedics once. Amazing.

My bass lines thunder across the fields until about six o’clock, by which time the immortal words, “Right, Tobes, that’s you done!” are emitted from Dan’s mouth. Now all I have to do is backing vocals, which won’t be for a little while yet.

Hallowe’en looms. Dan decides to put a c.d. of scary sound effects on in the kitchen as I reheat the splendid Shepherd’s Moron (Pie- ask Robin why it’s called that. Nobody else has a Danny Larue) that Richie cooked us yesterday.

We blow up a couple of balloons which Kenny proceeds to burst within seconds, all the while making some of the strangest sounds to ever come out of a dog. He’s not right, that one.

Alan (Alex) wins the gold star competition and receives the golden boot for the month. Well done!

We get stuck into some wine and finish the day with Dan tidying the shit out of the kitchen like some OCD ridden lunatic. He’s right, though, and even through my overly refreshed haze, I can see that he’s made quite a difference.

I stumble to bed at Gawd knows what hour feeling content to the extreme that I’ve just recorded my part of the best record that’s gonna come out of this country for a good long while. My head’s going to hurt tomorrow, I know, but I’m so pleased with myself and, of course, my band-mates, that I don’t care.

Good god, it’s late.

Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. For now, I bid you adieu.