My destination: Real World Studios. One of the many true Meccas in several music circles. The place where Peter Gabriel records. Truly awesome albums have been recorded here. Us, Ovo, Up, and King Crimson's THRAK album. Anyone who is into prog knows of this place.
It would be ridiculous of me to some that I could just show up to one of the most prestigious studios in England, or even the world, and expect to just get onto a high profile record without major credentials, much less on an album that has been public ally advertised to no feature guitars of any type, and score a gig as backup rhythm guitarist. But here I am, hopeful and ready to start work once I get through the convincing stage.
I hiked my way west from London past Reading through to Box, after getting marginally lost somewhere and winding up in Bath, when I came across the prestigious Real World sitting among a beautiful garden. This would be the best place to camp out and wait for Peter himself to make his way into the studio, where I would introduce myself and land the biggest gig of my career.
The most likely way to grab someone's attention is to catch them off guard. I figured what would catch Peter Gabriel himself more off guard than someone sleeping in a sleeping bag on the doorstep of his huge studio! Surely he would ask me what I was doing there. I could then tell him my plans to land the greatest gig of my career and he would have no choice but to oblige me, despite his explicit desire not to include my instrument of expertise on this project.
Things didn't go exactly to plan. I was awoken the next day by a security guard telling me that there was to be none of what I as doing on Real World soil. I politely explained to him that he would simply have to make an exception. My plan was to meet Peter fucking Gabriel himself and land the gig of a lifetime. He told me the was nothing he could do and that if I didn't pack up my bloody sleeping bag that he would taze my bum and so please be off with me at once! I moved to the absolute rim of the Real World properties and staked out the parking lot. I was kind of hoping that maybe there would be a reserved parking spot with the cover of SO on a sign right near the entrance, but unfortunately for me PG is a little more wiley than that. In hindsight it did seem a bid ridiculous for me to assume that he would give himself Up So easily. Surely I would have to work harder than that.
The beginning of the next phase of the plan would entail being a bit more vigilant and cautious than I had been previously. It turns out PGs house was mere feet from the actual Real World "Big Room" where so many infamous recordings have been made. It also turns out that PG walks *on foot* from his house over to the studio maybe three times a week to do what people are referring to as a radically marginal amount of work on the project. Peter is known for his almost Dr-Dre-On-Detox meets Axl Rose meets frozen molasses-like slow output. Fortunately the work is always top notch. It seems he always kind of fumbles along until he hits the real paydirt. His real strength, like the aforementioned Dr. Dre, is knowing when the gold is coming down the pipe. Most great artists don't necessarily have a way of tapping into the gold, but simply recognize when it materializes out of the ether. Artists like Thom Yorke are able to spun it seemingly at will. These are the two separate breeds of artists that permeate the pop music world.
I staked out the path between the Gabriel compound and Real World for several days before he emerged. He moved slowly during the early morning, and then traced the same path back for lunch. On some days that was it. Other days, when presumably the music juices were flowing he would come back for another few hours before retiring for the evening.
I hadn't been indoors in several days and had taken to relieving myself in parts of the garden that went readily patrolled by RW security and were not heavily populated with conifers but broad leaved flora, for reasons that became obvious after day 2 of answering the call of nature in the presence of pine needles and cones.
Even when PG was cloistered away and would not come forth for the day, the parking lot was filled. This album, which was being publicized as an "orchestral covers" collaborative project, enlisted an entire orchestra for days at a time. Needless to say there was quite a bit of foot traffic and it was all I could do to keep on absolute maximum stealth for most of the day. On occasion people would notice me, and I would throw my Martin Backpacker guitar of my shoulder and begin to sing a Mary Poppins song, hoping the English natives would think me a chimney sweep and go along their way. It seemed to be working, although it seems the English custom was to continuously give chimney sweeps bizarre glances when walking to and from your car. I don't think I'll ever understand English culture entirely.
I haven't been indoors for a full week now, and have subsisted only on canned beans. I finally mustered the courage to approach Peter en route to RW.
"Mr. Gabriel?"
'Yes?'
"You don't know me but my name is Eli Hibit and I'd just like to introduce myself and say.."
'You're the guy whose been wandering around the past week?'
"Well yes but..."
'Security has kept a close eye on what you have been Up to, watching the orchestra come to and from their Cars, monitoring the Birdys, et cetera. You've been watching with such Passion no one had the heart to stop you, except when you were Scratching your bum in front of my house, when you got caught in the Rabbit Proof Fence or when you started that fire right in front of the Real World sign and almost Melted it. So, I'd like to be Down to Earth for a moment, would you like to join Us? Ovo the Millennium Show.'
"What?"
'Do you want to be on the album or not?'
"Yezzir"
'Alright then, come on in.'
And then I set foot in the magnificent Real World Studios foyer for the first time. It was insane. To see a place that you have obsessed over for years has a very dreamy, almost underwater feeling, like you've taken several Benadryl.
Peter led me into the main mixing room, and sat me down. When he asked me why I wanted to come into the studio so badly, I replied 'To play on your latest release, of course, sir.'
"Alright then son, what do you play?"
It was at this point that I unsheathed my mighty backpacker. 'Backup Rhythm Guitar sir.'
Now it was his turn to say "What?"
'Backup Rhythm Guitar. I normally provide the rhythm guitar with a little more foundation, to try to flesh out the sound a little bit. I'm who Bob Weir wishes he had standing behind him, when he was standing behind Jerry Garcia. I know that kinda of sounds insulting to Bobby, but believe me it's not intended to be, I just mean that Jerry used to take most of the solos, which kind of means that Bob mostly played the rhythm...'
"What in God's name are you blathering about?"
'What I'm blathering about, Pete, is that you need me on your album.'
"In what way? I've already advertised the album as not having any guitar or drums of any sort."
'Well you'll just have to go back on your word then. Believe me, it'll be worth it. are there any songs that you're particularly struggling with right now?'
"Well right now almost all the songs are coming along fantastic and are tighter than a Ladybird's twat, except well.......well we've recorded this particularly awful version of Street Spirit by Radiohead. I really half-assed it. My voice is like cracking all over the place but I was kind of stoned and bet John Metcalfe that I could bang it out in one take, and so now it's kind of just finished like that, and he's going to see if I'm willing to embarrass myself enough by putting it out on the disc, or if I'll go through with our wager."
'Which was?'
"Do a Genesis reunion show where I actually wear all the old costumes."
'Does that include the skintight black onesie?'
".....Yes."
'Lead me to the song.'
What he played left me breathless. This was one of the most beautiful tribute renditions I'd ever heard. It was so sparse and pensive.
'Peter,' I said taking off the headphones 'This song is perfect. I mean I'll see what I can do but I think you've really got something amazing here. This is your next "Fourteen Black Paintings". This should close out your album.'
"Are you sure? I mean Thom Yorke hates it so much that he's not even going to participate in the project anymore."
'Oh fuck him, he's a jerkoff banana douchebag.'
"Banana?"
'Its a pejorative. Maybe not in England but definitely in America.'
"I don't think that's true."
'Believe me, it is.'
"But I think you might have something to the whole end-of-the-album thing. I could just sneak it in at the back end and then most people probably won't even make it that far into the album. Thats a pretty good idea."
'I know it is, anyway, let's get me all mic-ed up and make this damn thing listenable.'
I plugged in my Martin Backpacker and went to work. It was hard to decide what to contribute to a piece as sublime as this. I let the song roll through about 25-30 times, hugging my small guitar across my chest, listening to the cracking voice of PG whistle through my ears. He seemed to be getting annoyed, so I decided I'd better start producing some of the proverbial goods. I began simply, merely plucking some strings in the background, and letting the orchestra do most of the heavy lifting. I let them be the rhythm guitar that I would back up. The piano was Jerry Garcia on lead. The orchestra was Bobby Weir. And I was me, backing it all up. The next thing I knew it was finished. I laid my guitar down and asked the man in the booth what he thought.
"It was alright." It was at this point that he blew out an enormous puff of smoke. Now, I couldn't tell you whether or not it was the weed in the air, his insane coughing from taking that last monster hit, or my performance, but I thought I saw him roll a tear. I'd like to think it was the last one. I collected my check from the lady at the front desk, telling her Peter told me to get it from her as he was indisposed, and started on the long journey home, to pay back my agent what I owed him, having a wonderful day, in a one way world.
