(This is a very short ode to the infamous Troggs Tapes. Neither this post, nor The Troggs Tapes, are even remotely safe for work. Cheerie-o!)
“No, it’s all wrong!” Sir David Sebastian was spraying hot spittle in the main room of Studio B at Twickenshire Sound. “The decay on the delay is too quick! This guitar passage is supposed to sound like a swan gently gliding onto the surface of a pond, NOT a swan gently gliding and doing a fucking face-plant into a rock! Add another four tenths of a second of decay!”
The second engineer, Arthur Nevins, was sufficiently chuffed at his restraint over the course of the session. He dealt with Sir David’s tantrums and constant demands. He put up with Sir David’s barrage of insults and drug deliveries. And he suffered all with jolly good humor. But after three hours of knicker-soiling over milliseconds of echo, Arthur Nevin’s patience was about to run out.
“Look, David,” he said. “Are you fucking deaf, or are you a fucking blind rotter?!? If we add another four tenths of a second, the fucking listener is going to wonder when the fucking swan is going to land! We’ve been back and forth over this for fucking hours, and we ain’t getting anywhere! Cause you want your fucking swan to keep circling over the pond like it’s waiting for fucking permission to land from the control tower!”
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?!?” Sir David said. “Do you have any idea how many quid we have invested in the fucking record? And you, a ten pence errand boy, are trying to crash my fucking swan! Add another four tenths of a second of decay, you wanker!”
“Why do you hate your swan, David?” Arthur said. “Why do you want to see your swan never landing, never coming home to roost? It’s just going to fucking stay up there, yeah? You swan is just going to glide for-fucking-ever, never seeing its fucking swan family again! Because you won’t let your fucking swan land!”
“Why do you want to kill my swan, you heartless bastard?” Sir David said. “Why do you want to see my swan fucking die in a fiery crash? Do I need to call fucking animal control?”
The argument went on, until the first engineer suggested two tenths of a second.