Entry #676210, added on 11-14-09 @ 11:23 pm EST
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| i'm almost back on track with 5465 words today :) | Entry #676210 |
The next four days were spent with the band practicing in the rec room. The rec room took on the new name of ‘HQ’ and the four members spent all their waking hours there. Well, the three with musical ability did; Braden came and went, thinking they only needed him for pep talks and emotional support. His singing wasn’t important. When he did try to sing, nobody could hear him, including himself, so it didn’t matter one way or the other. Plus he was going to lip sync everything, once Uncle Razz had recorded and edited him.
He did, however, practice his moves. He pranced around the ‘stage’ (i.e. the area between the sofa, which had been moved closer to the TV wall, and foozball table, which had been shoved into the corner to make room for a stage) making sexy faces and striking delicious poses, the kind of poses that would make girls scream and want to be with him. He practiced prancing in time to the music. He thrust his hips, swiveled his ass, bent forward and jogged his shoulders, making a pouty face.
On the second day of practice, Braden set up his digital video camera on a tripod and videoed until the memory was full, and then went and watched himself on his computer, making mental notes of what worked, what needed work, and what was freaking awesome.
On the third day, he attached the video camera directly to the big screen TV so he could watch himself live. The others protested, but Braden reminded them that half of their appeal was going to be visual awesomeness. Braden then proceeded to prod at Matt to remind him to work his guitar.
“Make love to it,” he said. “Loooove your guitar like she was your best woman.”
Matt made a face at Braden.
“Whoops, forgot, you don’t like women. Make looooove to your guitar in its ass-“
Matt kicked Braden in his ass without missing a note.
It looked pretty good on the big screen TV.
Josh erupted in laughter and had to stop playing keyboards so he could double over and the music fell apart. It was starting to sound like a poppier, cuter, 21st century version of the Autograph song, albeit without vocals.
Braden kept trying to get the others to ham it up for the camera. He took the camera off the tripod and did some close-ups. Josh stuck out his tongue and waggled it at the lense in a feeble attempt to be sexy. Matt flexed his fingers and did a fabulous guitar solo, a bead of sweat started to dribble down his forehead, and he glared into the camera with a playfully evil twinkle in his dark eyes.
When Braden brought the camera over the drums and into Jess’s face, she ignored it completely. Nothing of interest registered in her amazing features except the determination of battering her drums perfectly. Braden brought the camera down to rest on her boobs, basically hidden behind a loose black sleeveless t-shirt, but Matt and Josh hooted with laughter at what they saw on the TV screen. Looking up, Jess immediately stopped drumming. She gave Braden a look of sheer disgust and frustration, which he captured digitally before she swatted the camera away.
“What?” Braden asked in mock confusion. “This band is living primarily through visuals. You have to look good as well as sound good.”
Jess, in a spurt of conversation rivaling everything that had previously come out of her mouth at any of them, said, “YOUR job is flamboyant front-man -- to look good. MY job is drummer -- to hold the music together.”
Still focusing on Jess’s face, Braden said, “You’re our token female and token visual minority. You need to log some camera time, baby.”
Jess, fuming, got up from the drum stool. She laid her sticks down across the snare.
The others were totally quiet. Braden, never thinking for a moment that he could possibly think or say anything wrong, kept the camera on her. Jess pressed past him and he zoomed in on her ass as she walked off the stage.
“Hey, where you going?” Josh called.
Jess didn’t answer. She went into the bathroom.
“Nice,” Matt said.
“What?” Braden asked. “Well, take five, I guess.” He switched off the camera and went upstairs to see what was in the fridge.
On the fourth day, the camera was back on the tripod and Braden was back to gyrating, prancing, leaping, occasionally mouthing the lyrics, and making beautiful faces at the camera, all the while enjoying how wonderful he looked on the big screen. From time to time he would swivel the camera and zoom in to Josh or Matt, who each made efforts to look awesome while doing their musical thing, but he didn’t point it at Jess once.
When she left that day, Braden called after her, “You better get used to looking good on camera, girl. You’re gonna have fans. Stalkers, even.”
Jess didn’t answer.
Matt said, “I can’t come tomorrow, mate. Outing with the ‘rents.”
“Huh?” Braden answered. How could anything be more important than the band? “Well, Uncle Razz is taking us to the studio on Saturday, so I think we need to practice,” he whined.
“You need to practice,” Matt said. “Do you even know all the words yet? The rest of us are sounding pretty awesome.”
“Well, watch MTV for a while, see if you can get some pointers on looking good on film, at least,” Braden said. “Can you call the chick and tell her we’re not practicing, then?”
Matt nodded and left. Josh said, “We’re not practicing tomorrow?”
“No point, without Matt,” Braden said.
“Kay,” Josh grinned, and he was off.
Braden’s mom was off on a four-day-weekend retreat that had something to do with relaxation therapy and mud; the price of beauty. His dad was having one of his usual extended business days, the kind that extend into business dinners and business drinks, so Braden took his dinner: herbed carrots, potato soufflé, and turkey tacos, all lovingly prepared by the maid.
Her name was Lola. This time she followed him down the stairs to the rec room, bringing a glass of fresh juice. She was new; the old maid, Michu, had been with them for a few years, but she’d got married in the spring so Lola was new. She was from Colombia or something.
“I like your music,” Lola said, handing the juice to Braden as he put down his tray and switched on the TV.
He grinned at her. She probably knew all about Rico Suave. “Thanks,” he said. “You should stay down here and watch some time.”
Lola smiled. She had a round, brown face, and her green eyes were made prettier by the crows’ feet that gently framed them. Braden had never noticed that her hair, usually pulled back into a working bun, was chestnut specked with white, and uber curly. Tendrils of it had sneaked out and were teasing her face. Lola pushed them out of her eyes with the back of her hand, stubby and wrinkled from years of soapy water. She smiled again, like a combination of a cherub and a doting grandmother. “Better get back to work,” she said.
“Off you go, Muchacho,” Braden said.
“Muchacha,” she corrected him, and disappeared back into the world of dust and grime.
The weekend recording session was as close to anything resembling work that Braden and the others ever hoped to do. Uncle Razz picked up Braden and Josh in his van, so that they wouldn’t be late; the studio was booked for eight a.m. Matt and Jess, of course, arrived punctually, both scrubbed and neat, ready to go. Braden, unshowered, unshaved, and unkempt, still looked terrific. He had rolled out of bed early enough to brush his teeth, put on deodorant, and run some Bed Head through his hair, so he was sparkling in all the right places.
The first part of the studio was boring, just offices. Uncle Razz said familiar hellos to the pretty girls working behind the desks, resplendent in matching coifed hair, Hollywood make-up, and long, glittering nails.
Then they went into the control room. Entering the room was like stepping on to the bridge in Star Trek or the Millenium Falcon or something. It was a veritable wet dream of switches, knobs, faders, screens, speakers, and buttons with lights in them. There was a window with a curtain across, and a wooden door on the other side.
The man in the booth was a toned-down version of Uncle Razz, who today was sporting red spandex and a black biker vest, the gray short-n-curlies on his chest squeezing out through the open front like a giant brillo pad. Uncle Razz grabbed the sound guy’s hand and pumped it, “Andy!” and Andy pumped back, “Razz!”
Andy had a very bushy mustache and, though he was thinning on top, had his long gray-brown hair pulled back in a loose pony tail down his back. He was wearing faded scuffed jeans, a Metallica t-shirt with the sleeves torn off, and green flip-flops. He was about Razz’s age, too, with wrinkles on his face and dark curly hair on his knuckles.
Uncle Razz introduced the band. He and Andy pointed at things called mixing boards and consoles, and explained some stuff about tracks, over-dub, key and pitch, and other things that didn’t seem important to anyone except Jess. The boys nodded impatiently, until finally Razz suggested they get set up.
Andy opened the door to the studio floor and pushed back the curtain. The boys squeezed in, followed by Jess, who gave a low whistle. Matt grinned at her.
“Never thought you’d be here?” he asked.
Jess shook her head, looking around.
The booth was a long room with windows on either side, the far ones draped with heavy curtains and the near ones open now to the control room. There was a piano at one end and a drum kit at the other, and various other odd instruments here and there, plus a long row of microphones of various sizes and shapes, some on low stands, some on tall stands with booms, and some hanging down.
Jess went over and checked out the drum kit. There was a small mic clipped to each drum, and mics on booms hovering over each cymbal. It was a much bigger kit than the one in Braden’s basement, with all kinds of odd additions, even a wooden xylophone and three cowbells. There were two stools near the kit. Andy pulled one over and told Jess to take a seat.
“What we’re going to do,” Andy said, “Is record the band first. Just the band, no vocals. We might have to do it a few times until we’re happy with the result. Then we’ll play back the recording and the vocalist will be recorded separately.”
Uncle Razz said, “Yeah, as many times as we need to until we have something we can use.” He smirked and winked at Braden.
“So,” Andy said, “you brought your keyboards and stuff?”
The boys nodded and Uncle Razz led them out to the van to get the instruments. Braden hung back in the control room, watching Jess through the window as she started feeling out the drum kit. As usual, she rocked.
The band got all set up, with Andy plugging random cables in to the guitar and keyboards, then he closed the door between the control room and the studio.
“What’s the name of the guitarist?” Andy asked, and Uncle Razz told him.
Andy had a little mic on a stand in front of him, and he used it to say, “We’re going to start with you, Matt. Just start warming up while I get your sound right over here. The others, quiet please.”
Matt got a fantastic grin on his face and started laying into his guitar like a weird, white Jimi Hendrix wannabe, but eventually got serious and warmed up with his best work on the Autograph cover. Andy clicked switches, turned knobs, slid faders up and down all over the place, until he was satisfied with the sound coming through the speakers over their heads.
“Ok, that’s fine, now you, keyboards,” he said into his mic.
Josh played his favourite bits from Greenday, Boys Like Girls, and Lady Gaga.
“Is that the sound you’re going to be using for our song today?” Andy asked, leaning forward.
Josh shook his head. Andy rolled his eyes. Josh switched a dial on his main keyboard, then one on his other keyboard, and then played the Autograph bass line.
“Keep going,” Andy said, again flicking and fadering. “Good. Anything else?”
Josh kept the bass line going and played the part of second guitar on his main keyboard. Andy did his thing. Josh came through the speakers sounding pretty sweet.
Andy said, “What’s your name?”
Josh looked at him, dumbfounded. He couldn’t seem to figure out where the voice was coming from, even though it was clearly coming from Andy’s mouth, inside the booth. Josh looked around.
“You see that microphone in front of your head?” Andy said, pointing directly at Josh. Josh nodded. “You can talk into that. I’ll hear you.”
Josh leaned slowly forward until the microphone was practically in his mouth. He opened his mouth and in a deep, deliberate voice, said, “Josh.”
Andy grinned, flicked some switches, and said, “again?”
Josh did it again, this time more slowly, deeply, and deliberately, and the word “Josh” echoed around the control room like the voice of God, all deep and resonant with a touch of echo fading off into oblivion. They must have heard it in the studio, too, because they laughed along with Andy, Razz, and Braden.
“How did you do that?” Braden asked.
“Oh, just put a little reverb on him,” Andy said, “turned his bass up a bit… I’ll do that for you, too. You’ll sound sweet.”
Braden nodded his head. “Awesome,” he said.
Josh was mouthing something into his mic, but Andy had turned it off again. “Now you, sweetheart,” he said.
Jess didn’t look so sweet; she flashed a dark bolt at the window as she raised up her sticks and pounded a very unsweet devil beat on the drums.
“She’s no sweeetheart,” Uncle Razz murmured as Andy worked his audio magic on the sound of the drums.
“Great, we’re ready to go,” he said to the studio. “Everybody hold still. I’m going to count you in, and then you just start playing your song.” He flicked a few more switches, pressed some buttons with lights in them, as he said, “On five, four, three…” The two and one were given just with his fingers, and then the band broke into the worst cacophony ever to reach any eardrum.
Uncle Razz and Andy laughed, and Braden just crossed his arms, rolled back onto his heels, and shook his head.
Andy flicked things off again. “You wanna try that again?” he said.
In the studio floor, the three band members said something to each other, nodding earnestly, but inaudible to the rest of the world.
Andy counted them in again, and this time Jess started them off with four beats of the stick on the edge of the snare, and they played perfectly. Braden couldn’t help grinning and bobbing his head as his best friends and their token minority girl created something really worthwhile. Andy’s fingers were flying over the many sound boards, moving knobs and faders constantly.
At the end of the song, Braden was really pleased and went to open the door, but Andy stopped him. He leaned into his mic and said, “That was great, but we’re just going to do it one more time.”
They did it one more time three more times before Andy finally let them out of the studio. He played the four recordings back, discussing them with Uncle Razz. They finally decided that the second attempt was best, and that if they played with some of the levels and tweaked it a bit, it would be perfect.
Finally it was Braden’s turn. Armed with his scuffed print-off of the lyrics, he went and took his place at center stage. He had to stand behind a hanging mic, big and rectangular, sitting in a weird nest of angled wires, with a mesh disc suspended in front of it. Andy taped the lyrics to a music stand and handed Braden a set of thick leathery headphones to put on. Now Braden was wired to the ceiling. He felt like an astronaut and grinned cutely at his adoring fans, the rest of the band.
Everybody went into the control room, leaving him alone in the middle of the big, silent wooden studio.
“Ok, now,” Andy’s voice told him in his headphones. “I’m going to play the track we just recorded from your band, and you’re going to sing into that mic in front of you. I want your lips nice and close to the pop shield there, and try to stay put. Don’t tap your foot, don’t sway around, just stand still and sing the song.”
Braden saluted the window with two fingers, then put his hands behind his back and leaned towards the disc.
“Ready?” the headphones asked. Braden gave a thumbs-up.
Andy counted in, and the music started in Braden’s headphones. It sounded fantastic, so crisp and clear. At almost the right moment, Braden opened his delectable mouth and started to sing. The sound of his own voice coming out of the headphones and into his ears surprised him so much that he squeaked and shut his mouth.
Glancing at the window, he saw the entire audience laughing at him. Obviously they could hear the music and the singer in that control room. Braden did a little ‘I’m still cool’ dance and got ready to try again.
“Let’s try that again,” Andy said, and Braden could just make out the sounds of laughter coming from behind before Andy’s mic got switched off and the music got counted in. This time, Braden started right on cue: “I’m working hard… You’re working too…” He couldn’t believe how bad he sounded. He couldn’t hit one single note correctly. He couldn’t hold a note; his voice wavered up and down. “We do it every day…” He squeaked and squawked. Then his voice broke and he coughed and cleared his throat.
The music switched off. Andy had a look of sheer terror on his face, which he quickly hid when he saw Braden look his way. The rest of the band was trying to either laugh or cry, but not both. Uncle Razz was the only person there who didn’t look like World War Three had just started.
Uncle Razz leaned over towards the mic, and Braden saw Andy flick a switch so Razz could speak.
“That’s ok, Braden, it’s normal to choke the first time you hear yourself. I sure did!” Andy laughed, remembering perhaps the first time he’d heard Shok Shop record. “We’ll try it again, and we’ll keep going till you sound right. Ok?”
Braden nodded.
Andy said, “You wanna do some warm ups? Vocal warm ups?”
Braden saw the others looking at him, and shook his head. What kind of weird vocal warm ups would this quack get him to do? He didn’t want to find out.
“I’m ok,” he said into the mic. Then “Here’s my warm up:” He took a deep breath and shouted, “Thank you, New York! We’re very happy to be here, headlining with Rihanna today! Woo! Let me hear you make some noise!”
Now his boys were laughing again, and Jess had a little twist in the corner of her mouth that might have been something like some kind of smile.
“Ok, then,” Andy said.
Braden nodded.
Andy counted in again.
This time was better. He still sounded like a dying chicken having interspecies sex with an ostrich, but better.
Halfway through the song, the music switched off. Braden opened his eyes to see his Matt and Josh grimacing in the booth, their hands over their ears.
“And let’s start again,” Andy said.
And again, and again, and again. Each time, Andy switched off the music and started him again. After about a hundred tries, the others left, except for Uncle Razz, and they were still working on the first verse.
Andy and Razz were talking to each other in the control room, but the mic was off so Braden couldn’t hear what they were saying. Andy motioned him towards the door.
Braden took off his headphones and lay them on the music stand. At least he knew the words to the first verse now. He walked over to the opening door.
“Lunch time,” Uncle Razz said, and pounded Braden on the back, leading him through the control room and back to the offices, where the two pretty receptionists were standing in front of their desks, chatting. They both smiled at Braden and Razz with their sparkly lips.
Braden and Razz climbed into the van and drove to the nearest mall. The rest of the band were nowhere to be seen. They bought delicious take-out food at the food court and sat down.
“I suck,” Braden said.
“Yeah, you’re not too good, are you?” Uncle Razz said. “Don’t worry, you’ll improve. It might have helped if you’d practiced a bit, hey?”
Braden said, “I sang live at this dude’s party, and I was awesome. I don’t get it.”
“You were just showing off,” Uncle Razz said. “This time you have to actually sing. I’ll tell you what. You need to relax, first off.”
Braden took a deep breath and nodded. This whole thing was supposed to be easy.
“Now, you need to use your diaphragm. Pull a lot of air into your lungs, then stand up straight, fill out your chest, and use your diaphragm to push it right out through your larynx, nice and clear and loud and confident. Like you did at the beginning, when you said ‘welcome to New York’ or whatever.”
Braden laughed. He took a bite of his cheeseburger.
“Yeah, and once you get some good, hard projection, then you need to count, so you’re singing in time to the music. You know, one… two… three… four… one… two… three… four.” Uncle Razz tapped his straw on top of his Coke and showed Braden how to keep a beat.
Braden was still chewing, but he nodded his head, trying to keep up with the imaginary music.
“You can dance, right?” Uncle Razz said. “You keep the beat when you dance, right? So you have to imagine you’re dancing or something, so you’ll keep the beat. When you sing, I mean. Cuz you can’t move around while you’re recording, you know?”
Braden nodded. He stuffed the rest of the cheeseburger down his gullet and washed it down with the rest of his Coke without chewing. “Let’s go,” he said. “I’m ready.”
Unfortunately, he had to wait for Uncle Razz to slowly nibble down his Machu Wok, eating each grain of rice separately. Braden thought he’d give the singing a try, right in the middle of the food court, while he waited for his slow eating uncle.
“Turn it up,” he said in a low, sexy voice.
“Stand up,” Uncle Razz said. “Use your diaphragm.” He made sawing motions with his chopsticks across his own diaphragm.
Braden stood up. He took a deep breath and filled his lungs. He flexed his stomach, feeling his diaphragm muscles pushing against the air in his lungs.
Uncle Razz tapped out the beat on his Coke, saying “One… two… three… four.”
Braden tapped his foot and listened to the intro in his head, that he’d heard a hundred times in his basement.
“I’m working hard, you’re working too…”
Uncle Razz was nodding. “That’s it.”
“We do it every day!”
“Now you got it!”
“For every minute I have to work, I need a minute of play…”
“Sounding good!”
People were starting to stare. Braden raised his voice. He could feel the air pushing up and out, carrying the sound out of his voice box and into their ears. He grinned.
“Day in day out, all week long,
Things go better with rock…”
“You’re singing, buddy,” Uncle Razz said, grinning and still tapping.
Braden started bobbing his head as he sang, “The only time I turn it down,
Is when I’m sleeping it off!!”
He went into an airband guitar solo, dancing around the table and banging his head.
“That’s enough now,” Uncle Razz said. “Save it for the stage. Let’s go.”
They got back to the studio with Braden slamming through doors and rushing ahead to get at the mic. He was ready to do this. He was the singer, the lead singer, the flamboyant front man of this fantastic new band, overnight sensation, rising to the top of the charts with his amazing good looks, charisma, and fantastic singing!
All plugged in, Andy counted in and he heard Jess’s tap tap tap tap. This time he kept up the counting, tapping his finger gently against his thigh. He could feel the beat of the music his friends had played matching to his heartbeat and the tapping of his finger. He counted one two three four in his head through the intro. At just the right moment, he said, “Turn it up!” low and sexy, right in time with Jess’s beat, and glanced at his uncle, grinning and nodding his head with the beat, too.
His adrenaline pumped harder through his body with his thumping heart and driving drums. Now he could feel the beat picked up by Josh’s bass line. Somehow they were able to all keep perfectly matched to that one two three four the whole time, without anyone missing once.
He counted in to his moment and started singing. His voice was loud, clear, and on key in his ears. He kept tapping and brought each line in at the right second. He still was no Usher, but he certainly did sound a lot more like he was singing and a lot less like he was any kind of dying barnyard animal.
He made it through the first verse, and saw a big thumbs-up on both sides from Andy, followed by Uncle Razz. The second verse came out just as smooth and clear, and during the guitar solo, Braden heard a voice in his headphones, Andy, saying, “So much better, kid. Now you’re in your groove.”
He flashed Andy a grin, and counted in for the last three rounds with the chorus. He recalled from Autograph’s original, which he had listened to a bunch of times with Matt and Josh, that there was supposed to be some back-up vocals here. He could hear them in his head, between his lines. He closed his eyes and really belted it out for the last two choruses. The song didn’t fade, and he kept going until the instruments just stopped, with a crash on a cymbal and a whine on Matt’s guitar.
Braden opened his eyes and looked at Andy and Uncle Razz smiling in the control booth. Andy said something to Uncle Razz and Uncle Razz nodded, and as Braden reached up to take off the headphones, Andy leaned forward and said, “Great. Let’s do it again!”
Just as Uncle Razz had said, Braden went through the song over and over. He got better and better, but then his voice started to get hoarse and he started to miss the beat. Andy said they could wrap it up, and that he could make something out of that.
About the third time through the song, Braden looked up to see the rest of the band come into the control room. He sang to them as they watched and listened, grinning and impressed with the improvement. Matt did the slow clap for him, and Josh did the heavy metal sign at him with both hands up, and a toothy grin on his round face. Jess crossed her arms loosely below her boobs and gave him a half smile.
The fifth and sixth times through the song, Andy told him to really rock it out during the final choruses, and do the back-up parts instead of the main part, with some ad lib. That part was probably his best work.
Before they left the recording studio, Andy said, “I’m going to clean up the main track, piece together the best of the vocals, and lay it over top, and then enhance it and tweak the levels out a bit, and fade it at the end. It’s gonna be awesome.”
“Thanks, man,” Uncle Razz said, clapping Andy on the back.
Andy smiled. “Pleasure,” he said.
After they left, Uncle Razz told Braden that Andy had been a tech back when they’d cut the first single for Shok Shop and that they’d been getting high together ever since. “Don’t mention to Auntie Ruth that I get high,” Uncle Razz said. “And don’t get involved in drugs, kid. Bad for the health and, uh… and look at dudes like Heath Ledger.”
Braden laughed. “Don’t worry, Unc. I’m not going to do anything dumb. We flamboyant front-men have to be on top of our game all the time!”
Uncle Razz grinned through his mustache. “That’s right, man.”
It was a week before Uncle Razz came by with their song. It was on a blank CD that Andy had written “Razzamatazz – Turn Up the Radio” and the date on in marker. Everybody gathered in the basement, including Lola. Uncle Razz handed the CD to Braden, and he slipped it into the player.
“Now, before we begin, I just want to say-“ Braden began.
“Just play it, mate,” Matt said.
The others said, “Yeah.”
Braden hit play.
Tap tap tap tap
Nobody moved or breathed.
Their music filled the basement and their bodies. The intro was full and beautiful. Grinning, Matt did air guitar to his riffs playing on the track, and Josh started pounding air-keys.
Braden held up his hands just as his vocals started: “Turn it up.”
“Oh, yes!” he shouted.
They listened to the rest of the track in reverent silence. At the end, they erupted into cheers and back-patting.
They were awesome.
“Now we go on tour!” Braden said.
“And get groupies!” Josh said, with a little pelvic thrust to illustrate.
“No, now we should cut a video,” Matt said.
Uncle Razz waved his hands for silence.
“Now,” he said, “you learn more songs. And practice.”
“What about that record?” Matt said, indicating the CD.
“That’s your demo. I’ll play it to try to book you gigs, and I’ll try to get it on the radio. Maybe I’ll add a clip to your website. But you need more songs if you’re going to play live!”
The next six weeks were mostly spent choosing songs, getting music for them, and indeed practicing. By the time Uncle Razz announced that he had a gig for them, which turned out just to be a low-budget battle-of-the-bands type thing, they had a pretty good list of songs, all one-hit wonder songs.
Uncle Razz suggested that they should stick to one-hit wonder songs mostly from the 80s, because they’d be old enough that people wouldn’t really remember them, but would have heard them, which would give a spark of familiarity and therefore nostalgic happiness when they played them.
They chose some obvious ones: A-ha – ‘Take on me’, Dexys Midnight Runners – ‘Come on, Eileen’, and, Braden’s favourite which he learned very quickly, Right Said Fred – ‘I’m Too Sexy’. After much deliberation, they added Soft Cell – ‘Tainted Love’.
“What about this,” Josh asked, playing his iPod version of ‘Mickey’.
“That’s a chick singing to a guy,” Braden said. “I mean, we want to appeal to the gay demographic, but not like that.”
“It said on wiki that this song was originally written for a guy to sing to a girl,” Josh said. “Oh, Kitty, you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind hey Kitty,” Josh sang. “Hey, Kitty!”
Braden nodded. “That could work,” he said, and set to work finding the original lyrics.
Then they added the lesser known songs: ‘Too Shy’ by Kajagoogoo, ‘Somebody’s Watching Me’ by Rockwell, and ‘How Bizarre’ by OMC, which they sped up to fit their bubble-gum-pop-meets-boy-band dance style.
Uncle Razz, thrilled with their playlist, insisted that they add ‘Puttin on the Ritz’ by Taco. That made a nice round ten songs they could play by the end of summer.
“You keep practicing ‘Turn Up the Radio’,” Uncle Razz said. “That’s what you’re playing at the contest.”
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© Copyright 2009 katt (UN: kattbee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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