The picture below was taken at Sound Emporium in Nashville back in February(ish) of last year. I’m singing Coldplay, alone to myself in the main tracking room of Studio A, entirely for juvenile amusement, knowing that producer Jamie Lidell’s libel to poke his head around the corner and ask, “what in the bloody hell are you singing that rubbish for?”
Those sessions feel like a long time ago because, well, they were. Making music with labels and managers etcetera, just like anything else, is a double-edged sword. The plus sides - access and clout and all that - necessarily require there being more cooks in the kitchen, varyingly distracted and enthusiastic cooks, and a couple years can go by before a record sees the light of day.
In this line of work, a couple years is an eternity. Things are perpetually shifting within the business, and from the musician side, so much life’s condensed into such short periods of time that your January 1st self’s guaranteed to be unrecognizable to the, ideally, more cultured specimen at year’s end. Did we even make this record? The guy wearing maroon pants sure did, but he’s long gone.
I’d just started writing the MoaT back then, and I’m grateful for it’s providing a trail of pebbles through increasingly ephemeral woods, back to the person I used to be.