Breakdown, Dreams, and Resurrection

I was on a roll.

I feel indestructible when everything goes right in the recording process, even if that rightness is intermittent. I still get a buzz and a total high when the chord progression lyrics or my vocal performance works out better than I imagined. The feeling of infallibility is better than any drug.

I was a little inebriated then, so I realized my judgment had been impaired. I sounded tipsy on the playback, and my playing was sloppy. The lyrics were iffy, so I trashed it all. I didn't want iffy on the next Green Day album; I wanted pure rock ecstasy and nothing less. I'm extremely fastidious, I know, but I think that can be a useful tool. as long as my constant critiques are constructive and not just picky and obsessive.

I looked over at the clock on the cherry red wall of Studio 880--my home away from home; it read 4:45 AM. I reacted to the dreadful time with a weary sigh. Another sleepless night couldn't possibly hurt me, I figured. I would be everything but elated tomorrow, but oh, well. I was waiting for a crazy breakthrough and I didn't want to risk a few hours of useless sleep when an epiphany could have stricken me instead.

That idea failed, though. My heavy eyes closed and I ended up falling asleep on the leather couch near the production tools with some shitty lyrics written on a notepad that then was resting on my chest.

I woke up a few minutes before my best friend and Green Day's bassist, Mike, came in, two cups of Starbuck's coffees obviously in his hands.

He handed one to me and I just grinned as I accepted it gratefully. "You know, Tre, Butch, and I actually have a pool going for when you'll walk though that door empty-handed." I informed.

"Oh, yeah?" He asked as I sat up from lying down and he sat down beside me. "A day of the week or what?"

I shook my head as the burning hot, yet soothing live wire of adrenaline raced down my throat. "By month. Days are too specific and a month gives a better chance of winning, even though it's still pretty impossible. We should go by year."

Mike chuckled before asking. "Another sleepless night?"

"No, I apparently dozed off," I answered. "I was planning on one, but it didn't really work too well."

"That's because it was another sleepless night." Mike said. "I can't remember the last time you had a good night sleep in your own bed instead of a few hours on this worn-out couch."

I smiled. "Your memory must be bad then."

"Seriously, Bill," Mike continued, being the voice of reason against myself. "Sleep is a psychological need and I don't want you going those first six letters."

"Clever," I commented. "But I really don't want a lecture. I get enough of those from my mom and Adrienne."

"It's OK--I'll join the Lecture Billie club," he replied as he looked through one of my notepads, glimpsing at every lyrics quickly, yet intently.

"That's just a bunch of shit." I informed.

Mike nodded a little. "Most of it is." He agreed.

I smirked. "You're supposed to say, 'no, no, Bill, this shit is pretty cool'. You're supposed to be encouraging."

"That's what your mom and Adrienne are for," he replied with his impish grin. "I'm here to be honest."

"Not brutally honest," I tried, but smiled. I guess I was appreciative of his lack of sugar-coating his criticism. It made me stride for something better, and it kept my ego pinned tightly on the ground.

Tre walked in, a cup of coffee also in his hand and five minutes late, obviously. "Good morning, sunshines." He greeted, chirpy and cheerful at just a little bit after the crack of dawn.

Mike gave a little flip of the hand--apparently, a wave--before pointing to some words on the paper, saying, "I kinda like this."

"Like what?" Tre asked after swallowing some coffee. He leaned over and so did I to see my writing.

I don't wanna go down.
Gonna lose control,
So stop drop and roll.

"Neato," Tre commented.

"Eh," I said, not really shining with pride.

"What?" Mike asked. "It's cool. It's different, and it's fun. What's the problem?"

"We're not firemen," I reminded.

Tre laughed heartily. "No, but, so what? Besides, you're sending a good message. If some kid gets lit on fire, they'll know what to do."

I just kinda 'eh-d' again, but Mike said, "I'm ripping this out and leaving it by the tools so Butch sees it."

"No, 'cause he'll force me to do the song."

"Exactly," Tre said. "You're a little slow, Armstrong."

I sighed. "Fine, but if it ends up sucking, I'll just say, 'I told you so'."

A while later Butch came in and reported me home a few moments after realizing how shit-faced tired I was. I was grateful, but also annoyed; annoyed at myself for being in the prime of my thought process in the middle of the night instead of during the day.

Mike, Tre, and Butch were going to have to crank out and work on the rhythm section without me, but it's not like it was the first time. The three of them working alone during the day and me racking my poor pate in the wee hours of the morning had become a routine it seems.

Just because I got sent home because of my bloodshot eyes and haggard state of mind doesn't mean I was going to abide by Butch, Mike, and Tre's apprised of order to get some much needed sleep. If part of me wanted to indulge in an impulsive act of rest, but the bigger part of me wanted to attempt to pound out some canny and nimble photograph of a perfect thought.

I figured the bigger part of me would win, but my lack of rest caused me to fall asleep again. This time, though, I slept in my own bed, my wife of twelve years, Adrienne, sleeping next to me. The alarm clock reading 9 AM was the last thing I saw before I fell into a harmonious sleep.