S2/04. Old habits die hard

4.2 Alejandro Gonzales
Summer 1998, Alejandro's apartment, San Myshuno

"Didn't you have a visitor," Alejandro greeted his neighbor. 

Francesco and his lover, the aforementioned visitor, could've barely kept their pants on the whole way from the studio, and Alejandro couldn't wait to close the door after them once they'd finally made it to the apartment building.

It'd been a few hours since then.

Francesco's messy hair suggested a wild night, but he didn't look like he'd had a good time. More like a stubborn kid that refused to sleep. Instead of a teddy bear, he carried his Stratocaster in tow.

The guy apparently had whatever issues again. 

Though, it'd been a while since the last time he came over in the middle of the night. About a year? Not since he got over his ex-wife's crazy fits, and that was long before he finally ditched her.

"Got beer? I ran out," Francesco grunted instead of an answer and went straight for the couch without waiting for an invitation.

"Hey, I might have a lady over," Alejandro complained. 

"Nah, you'd sent her home by this time."

Alejandro sighed.

"Touché. It's fucking 4am. Why are you here?"

"Listen." Francesco flopped down onto the sofa and started to fiddle on his guitar. Unplugged, it was barely audible, but the short riff sounded slightly familiar. He then switched to repeat a short, choppy chord and quietly growled some similarly choppy lyrics that also sounded slightly familiar. 

He ended his performance by slapping his palm onto the guitar strings.

"It's supposed to be louder, of course."

"No shit. What's with this?" Alejandro racked his brain from where he knew this piece.

"Something's not adding up."

"Well, you're only playin' the rhythm here. I can imagine it'll be decent enough with a full set up." 

It wasn't hard to get the bigger idea. Even at this low volume, Francesco'd pulled off the uncleans almost perfectly and delivered a good impression of how the song could sound once finished. 

Francesco made a face. "I'm not doing 'decent'." He spat the adjective. "And before you say anything else – it's not because it's missing the lead. It doesn't need a lead. It's something else."

"Excuse me!" Deep Rift's lead guitarist protested, but if he was honest, he couldn't deny that Francesco wasn't quite wrong in this case. At second thought, the little piece he'd played worked better without a conspicuous melody.

Francesco waved. "Anyway, get your guitar and we'll see if it's any different."

The last thing Alejandro wanted after a hard day in the studio was a jamming/song writing session in the middle of the night in his living room. Nevertheless, he brought his own Fender and two bottles of Heinecken, and sat down next to Francesco. 

He was curious what his insomniac vocalist was up to; and most importantly, what the hell it was that he'd played there.

"When did you come up with this, anyway? It sounds like 1991." Choppy, rather uncomplex, and somewhat raw. Alejandro'd thought they'd outgrown the rebellious anarchy hymns. Deep Rift had been already on a different, more sophisticated route when they'd picked up Francesco, though their new vocalist never fully let go of his predilection for misanthropic punk and grunge.

"Dude. You must've been tanked," said said vocalist and mustered Alejandro with disbelief; as if he hadn't been drunk as fuck himself. "That road stop motel, before we got to San My."

That was it!

Finally the bell rang. Of course, Francesco'd picked up some of their intoxicated songwriting warm-up mental vomit to fix up. The bigger his agony, the bigger a challenge he took to turn trash into a playable number it seemed; and judging by what he'd dug out this time, it had to be really bad now. Admittedly, he made some pretty good songs then. They were more genuine than their more technical stuff, but also rather precarious. This one, too, would probably turn out too risky for their first major label album which crucially depended on commercial success; but Alejandro didn't want to discard it yet. If Francesco'd picked to work on it, it had potential, either way.

"Play it again," he said.

Francesco did.

Alejandro listened, then jumped in. It was a ridiculously simple tune. 

He played around a bit and adorned the riff a little, but it didn't really work out. Francesco'd been right, keeping the guitars simple sounded better. Even some tiny arpeggios ruined it.

This piece lived by its rhythm. 

"A stronger bass line, probably," Francesco said, and meant adding one; and probably adding a steady bassist to their band, too.

Dann his fucking obsession with the bass.

"No, the bass won't save this," Alejandro said firmly; and he didn't even need to lie. The bass would add more body to the sound, but not bring the song from 'decent' to Francesco's aspired niveau.

"Let's finish this crap first, it might be easier to figure it out later. Bet you won't let me sleep until it's done, anyway."

Francesco didn't object, and luckily didn't insist further on the bass.

Two hours, half a pack of cigarettes for each and a six pack of beer later, they finished the refrain, added two surprisingly long strophes, and one and a half bridges. As Alejandro'd suspected, and Francesco'd probably known already before, it turned out a pretty decent song.

A fun one, actually, and even though it was too risky for their debut, Alejandro'd like to give it a shot. Except they'd still needed to figure out how to up its level to Francesco's standard; and guarantee that Joanne would agree to put it on the record, too.

By now the sun was rising, and Alejandro rose and went to the phone. "Get your ass up here, you're needed," Alejandro told the phone receiver.

And added shortly after: "Ah- yes, coffee."

Five minutes later, the door bell rang.

"That was a joke," Nico barked, but nevertheless, he carried a big steaming jug with him that smelled deliciously, unmistakably like coffee. Then he discovered Francesco.

"Oh, it's you again. Of course," he groaned.

The menace on the couch flashed a wide grin. "I love you too, Nico," he chirped.