Cigar Box Banjo by Paul Quarrington

Author:Paul Quarrington
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: BIO026000, MUS000000
ISBN: 9781553656296
Publisher: Greystone Books
Published: 2010-04-01T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

MARTY AND I decided we’d make a demo tape.

That’s how things worked in the olden days. One would go into a small studio and record three or four songs as a demonstration (demo=demonstration) to the big record companies of how brilliant those songs were, how they would (with the proper production and arrangement) become big, boffo number-one hits! Nowadays, the practice is little seen, being as digital technology has driven the little recording studios out of business and is currently taking aim at the big ones. Simply put, anyone now has the capability to make a professional-sounding recording. Indeed, fairly advanced software is on many people’s computers without their even knowing it. This machine I’m currently pounding on, for example, comes out of the shop with Garage Band, a reasonably sophisticated program, already installed. But back then we were dealing with magnetic tape, and sounds had to be scratched upon that tape in some fashion only a few wizards understood. Quar-rington/ Worthy got a couple of friends to back us up (the bass was played by our old friend Stephen Tulk), and we went into a recording studio.

Mike Burke located the studio. You recall Mickle Burkle from pages previous, I trust, the bearded, sweat-shirted computer nerd who these days owns a record company and lives in a house so large and fabulous I don’t think he’d notice if I moved in. (That, in a nutshell, used to be my retirement plan. But I don’t need a retirement plan no more.) Burkie didn’t have a lot of money back then, when we were all in our twenties, but he had a real job, a good one, and accordingly had a lot more money than the rest of us. He was searching for some attachment to the arts, and seeing as Martin and I were both old friends of his (he and Marty have known each other since the age of six), he decided to become our angel. We didn’t use that terminology, of course. We may even have referred to Burkle as our “manager,” although we needed little management— it’s not hard to book free gigs, and Marty and I drank so much beer that we were eagerly welcomed by club owners at open mics—and would not brook the little management that was attempted. Mickle was our patron, really, owing to his having, as I say, more money than we had.

Oh, he also had a car, which is significant, as the studio he located was in Ancaster, Ontario, just the other side (from Toronto) of Hamilton. It was very affordable, this studio, because it was new and small. Two brothers had built it in the basement of their mother’s home. We drove out there one day and were greeted by the elder brother, who shook our hands solemnly as he introduced himself. “Hello, I’m Bob Lanois,” he said, dipping his head in a gracious manner. “Welcome to our studio.” He turned and spread his hands expansively, indicating the grandeur of the enterprise.

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