You’re Gonna Lose That Girl by the Beatles is on my computer. The clip from their second movie (in colour), ‘Help!’. I did like that movie more than A Hard Day’s Night for a long time, and when I first started smoking jazz cigarettes, it made sense, considering that The Fabs themselves said they were so stoned while making the movie. High knows High.

Watching the clip could possibly explain why so many musicians and bands think recording in a studio would be just like that. It isn’t really. It might have been then, but for a while it’s piecework, like fitting pieces of a puzzle. And with digital equipment, it’s that much easier.

I worked in recording studios from 1992 to 1997-98. Actual times may vary. I worked with some big names in music, some on top, some on their way up. More often than not, the artists were fine and pleasant. Sometimes the people around them were awful.

I heard David Bowie’s assistant, Coco Schwab, was difficult, but I got along with her just fine. She informed me that Absolute Beginners was her favorite David Bowie song. Sometimes Iman would call for David. My job was to answer the phone, and so I would always ask who was calling, to which Iman would reply, ‘Mrs. Bowie’.

My imagination pictured Iman in curlers, smoking a butt and sweating over an ironing board calling to tell David to pick up some mile and bread on his way home. Meatloaf’s people were annoying, insisting Marvin Lee Aday’s nom de stage was spelt as two separate words, like the way the New York Times would publish, Mr. Loaf.

In 1995 Metallica took over the studio for a number of weeks. They were pleasant, Jason was the best, Kirk enjoyed cigars with me, James was lumbering and Lars was aloof, though his then wife Skylar was charming. The people, mainly management, were something else.

I had words with their manager over the phone about some poo poo thing and one of their managers didn’t like what I was telling him and threatened to pull out of the recording dates. I called his bluff and told him to go ahead. And then nothing happened.

It was a good ride in the world of recording studios. Not much glitz or glamor and not much money since you could always be replaced by someone who would work for less pay, so no stability.

A friend of mine was scheduled to work on a Mariah Carey session and being an assistant engineer, his job was to write down settings on various meters and machines in the control room. Mariah Carey was sitting in front of the meters and since one simply did not speak with the then Mrs. Tommy Mottola, he tried to look around her. She felt he was staring at her and had him removed from the session.

The atmosphere at Skyline Studios was relatively pleasant when compared to Right Track Recording, which was not pleasant at all, despite Barry Bongiovi’s efforts. I admit having had a crush on Barry Bongiovi.

It’s Monday. Bill returned Saturday evening/Sunday morning. Mike was asleep on the couch, I crept down the stairs around 12:15 to help him with his baggage. I took three smaller bags, which were quite heavy. By the time I had gotten to the top floor, I was exhausted and out of breath.

I waited for Bill to come home so I could help him out, and I was tired already. I did not sleep well the night before, so that caught up with me and definitely helped me sleep a lot better that night. All weekend long, it was cold and rainy and not much like spring at all.

Most of the time, Mike and I hung out and watched movies and TV shows. He truly loves being here with me & Bill. We provide a safe space and we have furniture which his flat sorely lacks. He loves Hoboken. The people he works with see Hoboken as a snobby, upscale town, and I guess it is.

It is certainly not the same place I moved to 41 years ago. Not many artists or musicians or writers, or poets. It’s a cultural wasteland overrun by bros and young parents who look at their phone while pushing their kids in a stroller and paying more attention to their phone than their children. Let’s face it, the world is ruled by dummies with smartphones.

And the world seems to be getting worse. Today I found myself thinking about my dearly departed friend, Juan Brosales. You might have read about Juan in the initial posts from 2006-2023 thereabouts. Juan was here in the apartment, just to get a break from his parents, and Bill and I were more than willing to let him hang out and even crash on the couch should the need arise.

People in the US are being abducted off the streets and disappeared. And sometimes deposited in what has been called the world’s worst prison, in El Salvador. Juan’s parents were from El Salvador and pursued the American dream successfully. Juan sort of rejected that life; he had an artistic bent, as well as left of center politics, and was responsible for turning me onto some fantastic music.

And what brought Juan up was the abduction and deposit in that infamous El Salvador prison of Kilmar Abrego Garcia. Garcia had fled El Salvador and was fighting to stay in the US when he was abducted. If Juan was still alive, and Juan was no gang member, he too, for his posts on the social medias, could have certainly caused problems and led to his disappearance.

They take your ID and any other identifying items, like a smartphone, and send you out of the country without anything resembling due process. Juan died in September 2021. Perhaps he had an idea of what was coming. Of course he didn’t, but it’s a balm for my troubled mind and heart that misses him so.

Things are a fucking mess and it seems the great experiment that was the United States is over, thanks to the putrid jism stain known as L’Orange Merde.