WOULD YOU LIKE MORE COFFEE, SIR? No. FUCK OFF.
After a litany of complaints to studio management about the absence of anything resembling hospitality services, Rigdale advertised for a butler. This was mainly to placate any 'artist' who managed to find their way to the lore-surrounded studios and make them feel justified in parting with so much for so little.
A man named Anton filled this role for just under two weeks:
Panda Bear Jones were recording in the now-historically-significant room #012 when, in accordance with his duties, Anton knocked twice to signify his presence and therefore the availability of light snacks and beverages.
Escaping Anton's limited cognitive perception was the fact that the room was not soundproofed in either direction (due to budgeting issues) whatsoever, and that the studio's last reel of tape was being recorded onto with Rigdale's resident string quintet.
Escaping Anton's limited cognitive perception was the fact that the room was not soundproofed in either direction (due to budgeting issues) whatsoever, and that the studio's last reel of tape was being recorded onto with Rigdale's resident string quintet.
Disastrously, Anton had unknowingly ruined Panda Bear Jones' last chance at capturing the swooping crescendo of their in-development foray into gaudery, the Richard Wagner tribute, “Father, No!”.
In an instant, what was (in another life) the perfect take of frenzied viola-grating and life-sized cannon-firing was immediately reduced to an unusable cacophony of 'door-handle-creaked-with-subservient-timidity' and concluded with a meek “Tea or coffee, anyone?.. Rich tea?..” cautiously mumbled by the inauspicious man-servant, Anton.
In an instant, what was (in another life) the perfect take of frenzied viola-grating and life-sized cannon-firing was immediately reduced to an unusable cacophony of 'door-handle-creaked-with-subservient-timidity' and concluded with a meek “Tea or coffee, anyone?.. Rich tea?..” cautiously mumbled by the inauspicious man-servant, Anton.
Almost binarily, Lloyd's past six months of effort; his embryonic masterpiece, his timeless and defining moment in the history of modern pop bands attempting that which is beyond them in classical music, was reduced to unsalvageable musical kindling.
His disappointment manifested itself as unshakeable rage. Unshakeable rage of which Anton was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end.
His disappointment manifested itself as unshakeable rage. Unshakeable rage of which Anton was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end.
The rest of the moment is marred by shame and pain; disproportionally divided between Anton and Lloyd.
In an out-of-court settlement, Anton was provided with a four-figure sum, in exchange for his silence on the matter of that infamous day.
“Father, No!” has never since seen the light of day; Lloyd citing intense emotional turmoil of the ruination of his egoist self-shrine.
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