the blog quebecois

For reasons detailed below, I really wanted this to be a good take, to the extent that we actually rehearsed it two or three times before recording. And that certainly paid off, in that we didn't flub a note, nor misplace a verse/chorus. All that planning can have its downside of course -- I find the song somewhat sterile and unspontaneous. But it was becoming clear that we could play with some degree of precision.

This, unlike any of the other songs, has been heard by Famous Ears. Whose Famous Ears, you ask? Well, how about David Freaking Foster's Famous Ears, that's who. He was the main judge in a song contest sponsored by the local Recording Association. At least I think he heard it, though I'm betting not much more than thirty seconds worth until his oh-so-refined immune system kicked in and he collapsed into a writhing heap on the floor.

Mind you, I don't exactly regard David Freaking Foster (I have no idea if his middle name is really "Freaking." But it should be.) as the ultimate authority on rock music. He had most recently been famous for (co?) writing and producing the Canadian entry in the African-famine trilogy ("Do They Know It's Christmas"/"We Are The World"), a song so stirring and unforgettable that I've, ah, forgotten what it was called.

Apart from that, he produced and wrote for notable rockers like Barbra Streisand, Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton (an extensive discography here). I remember reading a magazine story about him in which he was reminiscing about, among other things, his days as a working musician, including playing keyboards in Chuck Berry's backup band. He went on and on about how sloppy and unprofessional his bandmates were, including Berry, whose guitar was constantly slipping out of tune. This was especially painful for Foster, who, as the writer pointed out (several times), was blessed with "perfect pitch." It also, as far as I was concerned, was part of the reason why he didn't really "get" rock music.

[I thought it was Chuck Berry; however his Wikipedia entry doesn't list him, so I might be thinking of someone else.]

The only person I've ever known with perfect pitch -- or close enough to it -- is my cousin. Oddly enough, it didn't really help us out very much (except when tuning the guitars, heh).

Sloppy. Unprofessional. Out of tune. Could be a perfect description of half of the Rolling Stones any given night. More to the point, rock has a sort of laissez-faire attitude to imperfection: Whatever works, works. It's not exactly like improvisation in jazz, though there are some of those elements in it.

The Beatles were fond of telling the story of when they were working on a particular song (I've never found out which one) when Ringo wandered into the studio stoned out of his mind on one thing or another and tripped over a cymbal. Lesser musicians would have shrieked and started recording anew, but they were of sturdier stuff. As one of them observed, "Hey, he was on the beat, so we decided to leave it in."

Another view on the human element in recording. This is a site that obsessively lists every bad tape edit and drum-pedal squeak in Beatles' songs. You'll be amazed at how many there are.

What's it about? Nothing, actually. The title is the only real thing about it -- I was living next to one of those big artificial lakes that are built in new communities to:

a) increase property values;

b) divert water from overloaded storm drains; and

c) collect every abandoned shopping cart in the vicinity

The rest is overwrought poetic dreck.

We changed hats on this recording, with me playing most of the guitars and my cousin switching to bass. I have mixed feelings about it. I liked the Townshendesque chords I was throwing around; but I never could find a way to integrate the chorus and verses. I needed a song for the contest, though, and this was the best I had.

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Verse:

This solemn vow I do undertake
Forged in sorrow and it cannot break
A purpose, a will
Too much to shake

Chorus:

I found my love
By the lake
By the lake

There was a stinging wind coaxing dirty foam afloat
And on the beach the bleached shell of a boat
A gull overhead
This song in his throat

By the lake

A desert of water crushed by clouds
An ocean of tears cried aloud
Fossils in amber sunk beneath
No swimming allowed

By the lake
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