Two thirds of The Leytonstone Shitkickers recorded a song last night. The verse and chorus don’t really go together, I mess up some of the singing, and we finish on the wrong note, but I’m really happy with the glockenspiel solo. The whole process of recording it was a lot of fun, with other James, our guitarist and chief Stetson wearer, heroically converting my shoddily strummed ukulele demo into something regarding an approximation of an actual song.
The song’s about a girl called Emily, who I hitchhiked to Dublin with ten years ago*. I thought she hated me, or at least found me deeply weird, then she ran up and snogged me over a year later, mere weeks before I left Coventry forever. I never saw her again, on account of not knowing her surname and thus not being able to stalk her on the internet. She had a lucky escape.
Listening back to a song you’ve recorded is odd, like most things you’re not used to doing are (in my case, things like sky diving, hostage negotiation, watching ITV, etc). When I sing covers I end up apeing the original vocalist, at least a little bit: I try not to, because it sounds ridiculous, but in some cases it’s unavoidable. But now, there’s no original to copy. This is my voice. This is what I sing like.
And I’m pretty happy with it. Singing is a confidence thing, and while I’m still slightly disappointed that I don’t sound like Lou Reed circa 1967, I’m starting to understand harmonies and things and it feels like a whole new world is opening up to me. In short, I feel like Aladdin and Princess Jasmine did when they took their first magic carpet ride together.
A link to the song, you say? Nah. You’ll only steal it and become famous.
*It was a fundraising thing – my only experience of those jolly hockey sticks RAG chaps, who were dashed enthusiastic and nice, the weird charity bastards