Lawrence Arabia

The new album is almost complete. Tomorrow I’m going into Roundhead Studios to finish the mix. This is all quite exciting.

Below are a few photos of the overdubbing process which has been trickling away feebly all last year like a river in a low rainfall area over-tapped for the irrigation of dairy farms.

Happy New Year by the way!

About this time last year, Elroy Finn, Connan Mockasin and I were in Surrey recording the next Lawrence album with our friend Joe Gubay. Two things have triggered some reflection on this fact:

1. The New Zealand Music Awards were on the other day, and I think it was on the last morning of recording that we got up early to watch streamed coverage of the 2010 awards. Connan (along with Dane Rumble and J. Williams) was nominated for Best Male Solo Artist, which was obviously totally deserved but fairly unexpected. Due to a daylight savings time zone miscalculation we missed the red carpet footage, which was the thing we were most excited about, but we got to see most of the awards. The awards were in turn hilarious and totally excruciating, much like this year’s. Visceral entertainment.

2. I’m almost finished the album.

Anyway, in the absence of actual new released music, here’s some photos of the recording process.

There were a couple of magical sunsets while we were recording. This is the North Downs during one of them.

One for microphone geeks. Or Elroy geeks.


Connan clicking Elroy’s back.

More soon…

Paula Bennett is suddenly in my kitchen, frantically margarine-ing thin slices of wheatmeal bread, too much margarine, tearing the bread. I can hear her breathing heavily through her nose as she slathers the bland bread with the bland spread, I want to tell her to stop but I have a nauseating form of lockjaw, saliva pooling at the base of my gums. Her necklace is bouncing up and down between her face and decolletage, like a swing being pushed by a deeply tormented parent struggling to make ends meet. She begins stacking the bread on an Arcoroc plate, the whole loaf, piece by piece, lining up the edges with a terrifying attention to detail. Despite the poor condition of the middle of the slices and the sheer volume of Meadow-Lea, the crusts are relatively unadulterated and she is able to construct what appears from a distance like a full loaf of wheatmeal bread, standing miraculously on the plate. This wheatmeal tower wobbles perceptibly as it is kissed by the hot breath from her overworked lungs – she is out of condition and clearly has not buttered a full loaf of bread so quickly for a long time – perhaps ever! She peers closely at her handiwork, perspiration glistening on her thick foundation. Suddenly she straightens herself, stands away from the bench, corrects her posture, stretches her neck and chin, purses her lips and sucks in her cheeks, peering into the reflection in the kitchen window. It’s more forgiving, the window. It blurs and diffracts her image, becoming impressionistic, elemental… romantic? I can see her clear sense of satisfaction in her reflected appearance and a terror spreads in my body, from my coccyx to the back of my head. I’m experiencing a sense of dread that seems instinctual and totally unfamiliar. My muscles are unbelievably tight. Suddenly, she picks up the plate, towering with wheatmeal, and moves towards me, with a huge, friendly, motherly smile on her chubby, orange-ish, strangely babyish face, and bends down towards me, smelling like Smith and Caughey’s – a really strong smell of widely deployed beauty products. I look down, blushing, avoiding staring indiscreetly down her dress, I just stare at the jade poly-cotton fabric on her shoulders, feeling like I could redraw every fibre and pulled thread and then she begins stuffing the pieces of bread into my mouth, piece after margariney piece, and it’s sticking to my palate, the canola oil overpowering my saliva, which runs like rain on an oily driveway. I begin to sob, my lungs spasming and painful, and still that horrible wheaty bread and that thick margarine, filling my cheeks, threatening my sinuses, crusts protruding from my lips. Suddenly, Paula Bennett stops pushing bread into my mouth. I somehow find the courage to look up from the fabric of her dress; to her face. She smiles warmly at me, and pulls some of the bread from my mouth so that I might be able to breath better, or even speak?
“But Paula,” I murmur, quivering. “You haven’t finished the whole loaf.”
She creases her eyes kindly, revealing the crow’s feet beneath her Mac foundation. She kisses me gently on the forehead with sticky lips, squeezes my cheeks together and tousles my hair.
“Congratulations on winning the Silver Scroll.”

Note: this story was copied unchanged from an on the fly Twitter writing episode, hence the uncorrected use of the word “suddenly” numerous times. I’m aware of it ok? Context rules.

Here is the sort-of-pilot of “The Mysterious Secrets of Uncle Berties’ Botanarium.” When the winds align, and the capital fairy deigns to put some bullion under our pillows, we shall make a grandiose full cinema feature spectacular of this. “We” being: Duncan Sarkies, Stephen Templer and myself, plus myriad contributors and volunteers (well, up until now…) who are mostly mentioned in the credits. Fans of Tom Watson may recognise Tom Watson, playing Golly Michael.

Tom recorded these audiological impressions of North America between July and September 2010 while we toured said continent. It’s sort of voyeuristic. Or the aural equivalent of voyeuristic.

Sensations 2 by Lawrence Arabia