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The deepest secrets and drunkenest rantings from Australia's premier pop combo

Monday, June 12, 2006

Sunday 11th June.

So we just finished two days of rehearsals, the last before we go in to record tomorrow. Traditionally these last preparations are full of blank stares, wrong chords and lots of infighting over which songs are gonna make it to tape. And the last two days were no different.

We’ve spent about a year on and off writing songs for this album, stealing weekend here and there between talking shit on the radio, playing in hardcore bands, and sailing (try to guess who’s been doing what). So we’ve written a sum total of 63 songs. That’s right. Sixty motherfucking three biatch. Sandinista get fucked. We here at Frenzal Rhomb strongly believe in the quantity over quality theory. It’s the whole put 100 monkeys on 100 typewriters for 100 days and they’ll rewrite Shakespeare kinda thing. Of course that cliché has been disproved conclusively, but put 4 arseholes in front of 4 musical instruments for 4 seasons, and they’ll write sixty motherfucking three songs. All of them good.

Well, no. They’re obviously not all good. Which is why we spent the last two days arguing over which ones we are gonna record. Previous to that we had exchanged emails, phone calls, tabulated votes, tried to coerce each other’s decisions, there was even a spreadsheet or two doing the rounds.

On Saturday our manager, the ever-despotic Christopher Moses was on hand to “help us make the right decision”, much in the way the Indonesian Government “helped the West Papuans make the right decision” in the “act of free choice” of 1969. Except there was less bloodshed all those 37 years ago.

A far more benevolent dictator, our producer Phil McKellar came in to the rehearsal studio today, and humbly put in his 3 cents. Of course, he’s in charge of pushing the buttons, so if we don’t agree with him then tape don’t roll.

What I’m trying to say is, we wrote 63 songs, we’re gonna record about a third of that. If you don’t like em, don’t blame us. Blame the top brassholes. Don’t shoot the messengers.

Tomorrow we put all of our gear on the back of camels, and ship it down to the St George area, to a secret recording location which I have been led to believe is sandwiched between an open sewer and a morgue.

Rock on. Rock off.

Yours ever-faithfully,

Frenzal Rhomb.

Ps – we’re gonna try to do one of these every day, maybe even with photos. Let’s see how far we get.

Comments:
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