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  • Writer's pictureNir Yaniv

Butt Shaker

I wrote a new Funkapella song yesterday. Temporary name: “No Piano”. The chorus was nudging me for several weeks now, and I even scribbled some of it upon a piece of paper, but nothing happened after that until the day before yesterday, when I found the correct form of said chorus and prompty recorded it on Joliet, my internet/editing/story-writing computer, using a cheap microphone and Nothing Else. Since this computer is never turned off, it’s quite useful in case I’ve some musical idea which I want to record quickly, before I forget it (my memory is usually rather good, especially regarding music, but with this one deadly exception: when I compose something myself, I tend to forget it very quickly. Many times I had to sing and re-sing a song which popped in my mind when I was driving, sometimes for hours, till I got home and could record the bloody thing. Here’s another reason to hate traffic jams). I was rather satisfied with the result (I usually am), and so yesterday I sat down to write and record the verses. Verses, I’ll have you know, are almost always more difficult to write than a chorus. At least for me. Being the rough and manly person that I am, I stood to the task. I then had a complete, if horribly-recorded, version of the song. I then turned on Mir, the mightly studio computer, plus a considerable amount of electronics, and quickly recorded everything again, this time in a reasonable quality and without being off-key, and with two more accompanying voices and a different version of the chorus and several other things which pop to one’s mind when he’s recording and can actually hear what he’s doing, for a change.

And then Keren arrived.

I let her (some would say made her) listen to it. She liked it, but had some constructive criticism: “It is mostly in straight lines, and not rounded enough,” she said. “Ah,” said I. “Is that so?” “Yes.” “Is this the part in which I ask for a hint?” “Also,” she said, “the first verse sounds like hip-hop, and the second one like reggae.” “How can this be? They have the exact same melody and accompaniment!” “No, look. The first verse makes me do this,” she shaked her butt at me, “while the second one makes me do this -” more of the same. “Baby, not now. I still want to work in the studio a bit. Maybe later?” “I meant the dancing!” “Well, it looked the same to me.”

The amazing fact is that, after listening carefully to both verses, I did find a slight difference between them. It is rather frightening.

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