A True Story.
I’m in a writers group. I had missed a meeting and they told me that a music producer had been there, looking for lyrics writers. I got the contact details and made an appointment.
I met with the record producer, a bitter, twisted old man. I was surprised to find he was my age, do I look like that? He complained about young girls that rock up to his studio, with thousands of ‘likes’ on Facebook, and expect to be turned into a pop star. No material, no band, no clue. Where do these singing knickers get their ideas?
The studio was in a disused office building, the sort of run down place amateur bands and artists use. He had a huge mixing desk, he said it was an analogue desk he had recovered from a place in New York, he used to work there. Look at this thing, tell me you can do this with laptop, these idiots with their Apple computers think they make music, it has no soul, no life. I agreed with him, I felt that it would be best to go along with whatever he said. I couldn’t really remember the way out, he lit up a cigarette. I prayed he would not offer me a coffee or anything. I might wake up in an ice bath with my kidneys removed. Then I remembered the writing group, how come no one pointed out that this guy is a psycho? They can’t have missed it.
Pop music and talent shows have killed real music. He was just ranting now. I wondered, If real music is dead then who are you making this album for? I kept that thought to myself, I told myself I can just churn out some lyrics, if he uses them I get royalties.
The sticking point came when I asked him to send me some tunes to work with. He was reluctant, as if I would steal his music. I’ve heard nothing from him since. Maybe he found someone else. Fine with me.
3 May 2017