Five Flavors of Dumb by Antony John Page B

pissed. Tash and Will seemed completely overwhelmed by the experience of being in a real studio, fumbling around like their guitars had grown extra strings. Even Ed looked a little stage-struck. And at the front, the ball of energy known as Josh Cooke squeezed the headphones against his ears as he jumped and jived to a beat that must have been coming from a different song. Baz told him to sit down; Josh said he couldn’t. Baz told him that his movements were being picked up by the microphone and would ruin the song; Josh said his movements were an intrinsic part of the song. Baz opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
    After two extremely deep, calming breaths, and a few seconds of total silence, Baz turned to me. “Is there another song you’d prefer to work on?” he asked.
    I shook my head.
    “Okay,” he tried again, “let me rephrase that. Which song would you like to work on now?”
    “The same one,” I said, but timidly.
    “It’s utter crap. Pick another.”
    “We don’t have another.”
    Baz’s mouth hung open long enough for me to count his cavities. “Now that is the most depressing news I’ve heard since the judge put me behind bars.”
    I looked at the clock on the wall. It was 12:50. We had another two hours, but I’d have given anything to leave right then.
    “What do you want to do?” he asked.
    I peered through the window. I knew Ed was frustrated at himself for letting us down, but Tash and Will still looked freaked out. And Josh was as clueless as before, rehearsing his movements like they had any relevance whatsoever in a recording studio.
    When I didn’t answer, Baz clapped his hands together. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen: Dumb is going to perform the song over and over for the next hour. I’ll mark the useable sections of each track, then we’ll spend the last hour editing them together into a single track.” He smiled, but it was a patronizing smile that made me feel even more useless than before.
    I looked at Dumb again, all of them still now, wondering why the instructions had dried up. Which is when I realized that Baz had turned off the connection between the rooms. My conversation with him was for our ears only; no point in battering the band’s morale any more. Baz’s offer was about as generous as we could hope for, I knew that, but I also knew that a true manager wouldn’t settle for it, and I knew I couldn’t either.
    “Wouldn’t it be better for them to do one complete, perfect track?” I asked.
    Baz snorted. “You’ll be lucky if they can pull off one complete, perfect verse.”
    I have to say I liked the ebullient Baz much more than the obnoxious one. “Please turn on the speaker in the studio.”
    “I don’t think you want them to hear what I have to say.”
    “Yes, I do,” I said decisively. Baz shrugged as he flicked a switch. “Listen up, guys,” I said, staring through the window at the band. “We have two hours left. We’re going to run the song over and over, with a one-minute break between each track. If you need a drink, grab a bottle of water from my bag in the corner. Otherwise, sit still, focus, and let’s nail this thing.”
    Baz leaned back and prepared himself, but he wouldn’t make eye contact.
    After half an hour, Dumb had performed “Let Go, I Feel Crappy” eight times. Seven of those were incomplete versions, aborted mid-song following catastrophic collapses that caused the entire group to surrender en masse. The other one was bad enough that Ed looked deflated and Tash looked psychotic.
    Another half hour, another six versions (four of them complete!), but I didn’t need to hear Dumb to know they were playing out of time with each other. To make matters worse, they were wearing down now and I knew they didn’t have many more renditions in them. Even Josh reluctantly sat down between takes, as dismayed as the Energizer Bunny to discover his batteries were running low.
    I told Baz to take five, and I joined the band