One more chorus, an instrumental interlude, some vocalizations as we repeat words, and finally a closing cadence.
But of course that’s not the end of our session.
“I think we need to tighten up the harmony at the end of the verses,” Riff says.
So we re-record both of those. But I accidentally sing different notes for my second-verse harmony and Riff tells me, “Ooh, I like that better,” and asks if I can do it on the first verse too.
Playing it all back afterward, though, I can hear my lack of emotion during some of my lines and insist on doing them again.
“While we’re at it,” Riff says, “I came in a little too soon on ‘Now when you’re gone I see shades of blue.’”
That’s enough work that we just do a full, brand new take.
On the second verse, I try to sound more open, vulnerable, and soft as the story shifts to reveal our new perspective. But for that, all I have to do is look at Riff and sing the truth: “I play it cool but my mind’s on you,” and “I keep replaying every word you spoke,” and “Somehow your voice is music to my ears.” It comes out exactly the way it’s supposed to.
I end up sitting cross-legged on my chair, leaning in as we listen for what else we need to change.
“When we were trying out melodies in the lounge,” Riff says, “you did a little run when you sang the word ‘star.’ Do you remember?”
“I think so …”
“I thought that was really pretty.”
We make eye contact for what feels like a beat too long, so I break it to write a note on a small pad where I’ve started a list of tweaks. “Thanks. I’ll try that on the next take.”
He scrunches one eye when the chorus comes on. “Do you think I’m oversinging it? Should I back off a bit?”
I shake my head. “It’s good. It’s kind of … raw. That’s what we want. This is all about being caught off guard, fighting the tension we can’t avoid.”
We still end up doing several more takes, not because the first few are bad but because we start to experiment.
Riff plays around with the instrument layering and even grabs a banjo to see what that does to the overall feel.
We try clipping lyrics or adding words to see if that makes things flow better syllabically.
I suggest recording extra harmonies (basically doing our own background vocals) for more depth.
This gives us way too many versions and they’re all interesting in different ways. My voice, however, needs a break, and Riff’s hair is all mussed from him running his hands through it every time he analyzes the music.
“Let’s breathe for a minute,” I say. “Then we can listen to these one more time, pick our favorite, and export the file.”
He nods. “Okay. I’ll go grab us a couple of drinks and some snacks, and we can just hang out for the final playthrough.”
“Sounds good. I’ll wait here.”
Padding off to the kitchen, Riff winks at me once and I hang my head back in defeat. When he’s out of earshot, I actually groan.
There’s no reason for us to be taking a demo this seriously, but I honestlylikeworking with him, whether it’s productive or just messing around. He’s creative and funny, he keeps pushing himself to do better. I melt whenever he gets a good idea and that mischievous look spreads across his face.
I sigh and roll my chair over to the monitor where all our tracks are. Riff has at least five Logic windows open and I cycle through all of them trying to remember the differences between each one. We have our basic version, our more layered version, the banjo version (which is kind of Mumford & Sons coded and I really like it), a super tight minimal version, and …
Oops.
A totally different Logic project fills the screen. It’s titled “That Syncing Feeling.”
Is this onThere Goes The Sun?
I don’t think it is. I’ve heard our teams talk about the tracks enough that I can say it doesn’t sound familiar. I’d remember the play on words for sure. Unless it was a late addition.
