Description
An analog tape machine spins in the corner wing, 5 young musicians sit under the low-glowing candle light of studio D. LA delivery trucks stacked with palettes of rusted steel and busted machinery cruise down Santa Monica Blvd. Behind the faded brick walls of the old Masonic Temple, a soft rumbling echoes over scuffed up floorboards where countless albums have been cut over the years: live, fresh, unapologetic – inspired. Remnants of its predecessors seem to hang in the air, thick with sweat and incense. As the city penetrates the room, as the faded scarlet recording light flickers on, as a ‘thumbs up’ comes from behind a dark tinted window, as the ‘hisssssssss’ fills the headphones… There, out of the near total darkness come a sound: A rolling psychedelic organ, dripping, ambient cymbals, the low resonate bowing of an upright bass, a distant orchestra over transistor radio and the howling voice of a woman – filled with a fiery discontent.
