I was once asked how I managed to assemble my former "packed to the gills" analog studio without being murdered in my sleep. There's a story, of course.
In the mid '60s I was in a rock and roll band. The British Invasion was still a thing. And to take the stage, we were Mod, brothers and sisters.
To be properly mod, you not only needed stovepipe flood pants, a wide belt, and a paisley shirt with a white collar; you needed what we on this side of the pond called 'Beatle Boots'. Because let's face it, penny loafers, sneakers and wing tips did not complete the uniform, know what I mean?
And I'm a guy who needs to be in the right uniform, head to toe.
But my parents absolutely forbade Beatle Boots. Oh, they were OK with the pants, the shirt and the belt, but for some crazy reason, they drew the line at Beatle Boots.
Well, I was making a little coin in my band on the weekends, and decided I could not take the stage without this footwear. To retain my freedom of action and avoid getting in trouble, I bought a pair in suede and hid them in the trunk of my car.
One day I was visiting my girlfriend, and came home a bit late for dinner, a major no-no. To make matters worse, I had worn my Beatle Boots to her house so I'd be especially hip and irresistible. I forgot to take my normal shoes. Naturally, I hid the boots in the car and opened the door to sneak my way into the house.
My mother was at the door, very angry that I was five minutes late for dinner. Then she looked down.
"Where have you been?"
"At my girlfriend's, why," I asked all pretend-innocently?
"Because you're not wearing any shoes. Where are your shoes?"
Uh-oh. It was a lose-lose situation, between a rock and a hard place. I was outed by my socks. But I couldn't tell her about the Beatle Boots. I was on the spot without an excuse prepared. The only thing I could think of in my shock and horror as my very existence on the planet hung by a thread was:
"I...uh...didn't wear any shoes. I went there in my socks." Big ingratiating smile.
Apparently I thought that'd be a logical explanation.
"It's winter. There's snow on the ground. You went out of the house in your socks without any shoes?"
Before I could answer, in came my father. He was not about to tolerate an idiot who'd go without shoes in winter for a son, and decided I needed to be taught a lesson.
"You're grounded for a month."
My younger brothers were, of course, my accomplices and knew the real story. They sat there trying to hold back their laughter, but kept mum.
"Great job on the boot story," my middle brother said when we got upstairs after dinner.
A month is an eternity when you're 16.
It was then that I realized that I had to be James Bond if I wanted to get anything essential done. Cloak-and-dagger spy stuff. Concealment and preparation. A good cover story.
I'm not saying I didn't get caught putting together that studio. It's hard to put a studio in your basement and conceal it. But from then on, I was prepared. And I always wore my shoes when I went anyplace.
In the mid '60s I was in a rock and roll band. The British Invasion was still a thing. And to take the stage, we were Mod, brothers and sisters.
To be properly mod, you not only needed stovepipe flood pants, a wide belt, and a paisley shirt with a white collar; you needed what we on this side of the pond called 'Beatle Boots'. Because let's face it, penny loafers, sneakers and wing tips did not complete the uniform, know what I mean?
And I'm a guy who needs to be in the right uniform, head to toe.
But my parents absolutely forbade Beatle Boots. Oh, they were OK with the pants, the shirt and the belt, but for some crazy reason, they drew the line at Beatle Boots.
Well, I was making a little coin in my band on the weekends, and decided I could not take the stage without this footwear. To retain my freedom of action and avoid getting in trouble, I bought a pair in suede and hid them in the trunk of my car.
One day I was visiting my girlfriend, and came home a bit late for dinner, a major no-no. To make matters worse, I had worn my Beatle Boots to her house so I'd be especially hip and irresistible. I forgot to take my normal shoes. Naturally, I hid the boots in the car and opened the door to sneak my way into the house.
My mother was at the door, very angry that I was five minutes late for dinner. Then she looked down.
"Where have you been?"
"At my girlfriend's, why," I asked all pretend-innocently?
"Because you're not wearing any shoes. Where are your shoes?"
Uh-oh. It was a lose-lose situation, between a rock and a hard place. I was outed by my socks. But I couldn't tell her about the Beatle Boots. I was on the spot without an excuse prepared. The only thing I could think of in my shock and horror as my very existence on the planet hung by a thread was:
"I...uh...didn't wear any shoes. I went there in my socks." Big ingratiating smile.
Apparently I thought that'd be a logical explanation.
"It's winter. There's snow on the ground. You went out of the house in your socks without any shoes?"
Before I could answer, in came my father. He was not about to tolerate an idiot who'd go without shoes in winter for a son, and decided I needed to be taught a lesson.
"You're grounded for a month."
My younger brothers were, of course, my accomplices and knew the real story. They sat there trying to hold back their laughter, but kept mum.
"Great job on the boot story," my middle brother said when we got upstairs after dinner.
A month is an eternity when you're 16.
It was then that I realized that I had to be James Bond if I wanted to get anything essential done. Cloak-and-dagger spy stuff. Concealment and preparation. A good cover story.
I'm not saying I didn't get caught putting together that studio. It's hard to put a studio in your basement and conceal it. But from then on, I was prepared. And I always wore my shoes when I went anyplace.
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