In August 2006 a bunch of unlikely reprobates congregated at Damien Youth`s Blackberry Studios at his home in New Orleans. Suitably named, the purpose-built studio was housed in a Nineteenth Century structure reached by a crooked path at the far end of Damien`s mysterious overgrown with fruit-bearing brambles garden. Hidden from the harsh glare of the southern sun and the stark digital future of Now. Perfect bolthole.
Joe Pesci came with an impressive CV of session work in LA and New York. Reserved, cool, Mona Lisa smile of contentment flitting across his face at the end of every take. Unusually for a drummer his hands were oddly still between takes. He drank water and quietly polished his glasses with the tail of his expensive shirt. .
Damien Youth needed no introduction. Fresh from another live local gig, wired up and ready to go at any hour, Lennon cap pulled down low over those demon eyes. His missus made great coffee and served doughnuts until midnight. Star-child at her skirts. Damien was never without a guitar in his hands. He never once stopped playing -- and the band suspected that Elizabeth slept with earplugs. This guy can write songs in his sleep. He looks down and grins, upturns a can and hits a subtle chord of many colours..
Peter Daltrey had just arrived from leafy England with his son, Oli. Clearly unnerved by the dark trek to and fro from the house to the studio, Peter eventually came to love the stillness of the garden, gulping fresh air inbetween takes, replenishing his oxygen supplies, thinking of Avebury and home. Listening to the thrum of distant traffic, imagining the drivers headed far out west on endless Kerouac roads. Couldn`t see the stars, but knew they were there. Addicted to the doughnuts and fascinated by the 500 channels of TV back in the candlelit house. He found a spider in his bed on the first night and slept on the floor for the rest of his stay..
Dave `Fingers` Carver, veteran of more bands than you could shake a magic stick at, was inevitably the butt of all the jokes. All bass guitarists seem to have the ability to absorb even the cruellest of ego-damaging quips. He was never seen without his jaws working overtime on a mess of gum. He would hum constantly -- even during a take, seemingly oblivious to the job in hand -- but focused and head down whilst the red light was on. He snored at night, rattling the shingles and chasing away the sheep that the other guys were counting..
Oli Daltrey came fresh-faced and energised from The Fog Band and Gentlemen`s Relish: his proto-punk guitar-driven Cavernesque outfits. Oli could sleep for England. Combined with the deadly long-haul jet-lag, he was rarely seen before noon, ready to consume a vast breakfast of waffles and maple syrup; new to his palette, but never-to-be-forgotten. During takes he listened intently, waiting for his entry then spearing his guitar into the mix like an English knight on a pure white charger..
With the writing duties falling to Damien and Peter, the pair found themselves locked away for two days easing out the compositions a chord change at a time, a line at a time, until the song felt right and ready to be slapped on the backside by the rest of the band. The songs gasped their first breath of life as the red light blinked like a mono-eyed mother. `Cry, baby, cry... Yer Daddies are here.`.
Back in Berkshire, England, Faye Lowe added her vocal touches to the musical concoctions..
In just three weeks the lid was nailed down. The can was polished. The band went their -- for now -- separate ways. The Morning Set: five guys back from the coal-face, where songs and melody rule the day. Where the taut strings of a guitar are like bird song. Where the fug of a locked studio is fresh air to them. Where being in a band is like being in the best gang in town.
Listen up! Yer going to be singing these songs forever!
The Morning Set.
