God Help Us

Blimey. Been a busy week hasn’t it? The THIRD recording of the week – and a bit of a change of pace. This is an uptempo, unashamedly daft record that could have graced any indie disco in the mid 90s. That being said, there’s a lot going on in it – so have a listen, chortle at the fatuous lyrics – and then the usual post match analysis will follow.

Lyrics

I don’t know what to tell you 
I thought we would be alright 
But after some chips and couple of pints 
You said things you can’t unsay 
And I took them all to heart 
Perhaps you’re right and we should spend a little more time apart 

I don’t know 
Why I’m in love with you 
When you treat me 
Like those other fools 
I thought that I meant more to you 
But obviously I was missing some clues 
So tell me what I failed to see 
And tell me what you want me to be 
I’ll do my best to make it all work out 
Luckily somehow I found my way back to my bed
 

Now it’s Sunday morning 
I’ve got a cup of tea 
I scratch and yawn, look out the window 
And then remember what I said 
And what a fool I am 
You turn over and smile at me and then I start to remember 

I know 
Why I’m in love with you 
And it’s not for your brain or your eyes of blue 
It’s not the way that you flirt or the length of your skirt 
Not for your conversation I put up with the hurt 
I could tell you what I mean but I don’t think that you’d like to know 
I’ll put with up a lot of shite for a certain something that I like 
God help us if you ever stop doing anal

Thoughts (and prayers)

Sunday morning. I wake up having spent a frustrating Saturday working on a mournful, serious song. While making a cuppa, I flick through the 192 (!!!!) snippets recorded on my phone. Hmm. What’s this jaunty, slightly atonal riff?

Sitting down with my trusty acoustic I tinker and tinker and tinker again until I have something. It’s undeniably stupid. Insanely catchy. A little like Madness in parts. In places more akin to the Small Faces. I can’t stop now. I’m suddenly overcome with melodic invention. A shouty bit. A falsetto bit. Some choppy, off-beat ska style guitars.

I decide that it’s best recorded rough and loud. With the structure sorted, I double track an acoustic guitar. Then I chuck in two electric guitar parts: the chords played with a nicely crunchy sound, augmented by some lead parts. There’s some jangling in there. The bass is rough – overdriven, recorded up to the red line with a pick. I leave all the fluffs in so it sounds live.

My voice is still a bit fucked after a chesty cough I picked up a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve written a part that moves from the bottom of my chest register, through a shouted ‘soul’ type vocal all the way into a high falsetto.

While recording it, I burn the fish pie mix. On the 18th attempted take – near perfect – my dad wanders in during the final chorus and his umms and ahhs are all beautifully captured.

FINALLY, minutes before I am due to collect the kids I get the best vocal take of the day.

The whole clattering mess is only 2 minutes 30 seconds long, but has taken 6 hours to record. Despite – or perhaps because of- its inanity I love it dearly. I rush through the mix and and release it to thunderous indifference.

The world turns again, blind to my terrible genius.

I am 44 and not getting any closer to being in the pop charts.