TOILETS IN THE BACKYARD

The recordings I'd been making had hit a wall: I've sat in our little apartment with my headphones on, writing drum loops, direct recording keyboards and bass, and singing quiet little scratch tracks. No matter how much our neighbor's battalion of small dogs howl every moment that she's away, I can't bring myself to record electric guitars and monotonous jangley percussion without fear that the guy upstairs - who shouts at his TV during sporting events with the volume and passion of a man being carnally-mauled by bear - will come knocking on my door, demanding I either play "Poundcake" by Van Halen or shut the crap up.

Luckily, my friend Chris lives out in a wilder part of Austin - with bigger yards and deader lawns. Chris's house has a big yard: they've dug a firepit in the way back, and for some reason there are a lot of toilets scattered around, Duchamp-style. "Come on over and make all the noise you want!" says Chris. The house is falling to pieces - Chris and his roommate live there for pennies on the dollar, provided they make extensive repairs that would make the place livable for anyone besides two dudes in their mid-twenties, except their landlord refuses to actually tell them to repair anything. There is one AC unit in a window, but it has to be turned off every time you hit "record". Its pretty brutal - with Texas temps in the 100s - but it also focuses my mind on the task at hand. I recorded vocals and percussion for two songs last Saturday, then we drank beers and played "Honky Tonk Women" and "King of Road" and some Bob Dylan songs on acoustic guitars. Chris is an enthusiastic host and a wildly supportive fan of his friends' music. When I play him a song I need help putting handclaps on, he clutches the headphones over his ears and says "Can I just listen to that once more, just so I can enjoy it, without having to think about handclaps?" Chris is a music fan whose outlook and fandom is unscathed by negativity or worn down by years of scenester bitchiness; its absolutely refreshing for a walking pile of crankiness like myself to witness.