Tales from the Loft

The loft in which the members of Tool create all of their music – spanning over two decades now - was known as “the loft” even before it became the starting point for the band’s artistic complexity. Back then it was Danny’s new digs - a grim brick structure in a seedy part of Hollywood where the Midwest transplant could play drums and prog-rock music as loud as he wanted. (Well, almost. The L.A.P.D. paid him numerous late night visits, and on some occasions Danny even opened the heavy bolted door to see who was ready to party.) When not pounding on the drums, there was a microwave oven to re-heat spicy Thai curries, and a vintage Pepsi cooler (with a self-contained refrigeration system) to keep plenty of beers chilled. Above a rickety makeshift bar, accessible by an even ricketier ladder, was a tiny loft where the future Tool drummer would crash out on a waterbed in the flicker of a television as mice (rats?) nibbled on his exposed bony toes. Having lots of time to kill on hot summer nights without any air-conditioning, the whitewashed interior walls were soon adorned with large reproductions from the Russian Suprematism art movement that were painted with staggering exactitude by Danny himself. Together with the geometric forms of Malevich and Lissitsky, strange aluminum foil creations hung from the ceiling, reflecting the glow of dozens of candles. Someday Danny planned to lay down a discarded carpet (along with other lofty ambitions), but for the time being the cement floor remained perpetually sticky from spilled Nukey Browns. This was “the loft” as I first knew the place. However, things would quickly change.

Given the amount of unused space, and knowing that there was earth right beneath the hard surface, it wasn’t long before a certain small group of practicing ceremonial magicians moved their Lodge headquarters from another loft (this one above Frederick’s of Hollywood) to Danny’s new place. On certain nights, while seated within the Circle of Protection and Obedience, the practitioners carefully followed the strange requirements of various medieval grimoires. Anticipating changes in the neural-matrix during the Praxis, some were still a bit apprehensive of astral turbulence and unwanted tangential phenomena. If followed to the letter (meaning no haphazard substitutions or other liberties taken), the Barbarous Words of Evocation might result in a bountiful harvest provided by certain spirits brought to physical manifestation from the relativistic space-time continuum. To produce the desired result while manipulating hidden forces (i.e. intelligences) listed in the old grammars of magic, once rare ingredients were procured from a nearby occult marketplace, one merely had to understand exactly what are (and more importantly) what AREN’T traps for fools. “Coincidently’, abandoned in the ‘Frederick’s’ loft was a large circular wooden board that had been painted with sigils from the “Heptameron” (as appended to Agrippa’s “Fourth Book of Occult Philosophy”) which the current occupier had found amongst some junk left by the previous tenants.

It seemed that someone (or something) was looking out for us! (Note: This still exists on the reverse side of Danny’s Enochian “Sigillum Die Ameth” board – a talismanic stage backdrop that should be familiar to most Tool enthusiasts.)

When not meddling with the Goetia or other ‘black books’, entheogens were employed as visionary tools (often combined with ceremonial mechanics) to facilitate daring sojourns to the outposts of ‘reality’ and, hopefully, vivid encounters with the denizens that populated this hyper-spatial topography. These entities might include the various tryptoids, tikes, and mantids described by the psychedelic theorist Terence McKenna and other intrepid (or foolish) neuronants. And, indeed, at times, there were fleeting glimpses of those that exist behind the scenery: haunting tryptamine jesters with outrageously complex appliances, electric flesh guides, silver fire babies and vortices of jeweled phantoms. Did I mention the cartoonish squatamauders? Eventually, attempts were made to shatter certain biological safeguards via simulated death techniques in order to access the endogenous tryptamine dimensions, with the operations carefully timed to coincide with the plummeting brightness of the eclipsing trinary star Algol (Beta Persei). (Disclaimer: Don’t try this at home, kids. Professional psychonants. Mindscapes closed. Otherwise, you just might end up as a Christian fundamentalist or, even worse, composing esoteric verses that billions of apathetic souls will never recite.)

Of course it is merely a coincidence that the exact spot were the magical rituals were once performed would be the future launching pad/rehearsal space for a group of musicians that would eventually incorporate occult principles and magical imagery in their artistic endeavors. Anything that may have materialized in the corresponding perfume of the Art was dutifully given the License to Depart (appropriate banishing procedures) in order to eliminate any potential mischievous, nay, dangerous residue. And this included shadowy apparitions from half-assed summons, aborted astral constructs, and any other aerial spirits that escaped the curse of chains due to ineptitude on the part of the Operators.

Other than a few monstrous sentinels to watch over things, and wall paintings of vibrant DMT entities, today there is little evidence of the “Lodge” days. Should a visitor to the building happen to glance up at the ceiling, he or she might notice the complex pulley system that was once used to hoist and lower wrought-iron chandeliers in which a multitude of green candles glowed in the hope of bestowing prosperity to all those involved in the Workings. I’ll leave it to the reader to decide if the esoteric arcana worked? Or, if a crack appeared, and the Devil slipped through it?

Most Tool fans already know how the band that wasn’t sure that it really wanted to be a band was created in the early 90s, and how the “loft” played a crucial role in its unlikely formation and enduring success.

Although Danny was playing gigs with L.A. club rowdies, “ Pigmy Love Circus”, doing studio session work with Carole King, drumming with various sitcom in-house bands, and had adopted the persona of “Danny Longlegs” with the punk cabaret “Green Jello”, there was still time to jam with a few others, though how serious these new guys were about playing music for a living was definitely up to question. In one way or another, all were involved in the film industry (or aspired to be), and it wasn’t certain (even to themselves) exactly where their hearts truly lied.

Danny introduced me to Maynard while using his new space (located right next to Danny’s) to gain access to the large brick building’s roof. It was a warm spring night, and after a few leisurely cocktails some of my fellow Lodge Brothers thought it might be amusing to throw an arsenal of water balloons down on the dressed-up prom couples standing up through the sun-roofs of limousines moving slowly up and down the crowded boulevard. (Note: I had meant to add earlier that only very well-balanced individuals should ever attempt the ritual mechanics necessary for releasing post-mortem tryptamines during the minima of the Algol ternary.) Now, where were we? Oh yeah, tossing water balloons down on unsuspecting high-school couples. Direct hits there were, with expensive hairdos soaked, teaching these foolish youngsters that it’s not safe to hang out of limos. Anyway, I vaguely remember that Maynard’s new place looked like a habitat for exotic lizards. At the time, the budding world class multi-tasker was working as a pet-store chain’s interior designer, but he had recently added falsetto background vocals to Green Jello’s indie smash, “Three Little Pigs,” According to Danny, his new buddy was “a DAMN good singer!”

As Adam, Maynard, and Paul D’Amour jammed in the loft, whenever a auditioning or potential drummer flaked, Danny would sympathetically fill in, charging each of the guys $6.00 an hour to help pay the rent and utilities. During this time, these jam sessions were usually described to me in less than flattering terms, although this was probably because Danny knew that I was a prog-snob, and his latest band was alternative metal. Despite whatever he had to say though, I actually had the feeling that he felt that there was a good chemistry with the new quartet, and that this just might be the group that he was diligently searching for. But could it really be that easy? Musicians who just showed up on his doorstep because he had available space? The exact right pieces needed to fulfill the drummer’s dreams? Well, this was L.A., and those candles were green…

It wasn’t until they (I still didn’t know if they had a name yet) had finished with afternoon rehearsals that my friends and I would show up at the loft with grocery bags full of cheap alcohol. Sometimes it seemed that we were losing more and more valuable partying space as the place was becoming cluttered not only with the equipment of Danny’s new metal band, but with that of Pigmy Love Circus and Rage Against The Machine as well. On those long nights of reveling, sustenance usually consisted either of greasy Tommy’s chili burgers, Thai food, or, my favorite, the chicken burrito combo (#5) from the open late “Shig-Shack.” The “Shig-Shack” was actually a hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint called “Dos Burritos” that we called “Shig” as a shortened form of the medical condition shigellosis due to the place’s perceived unsanitary conditions. To be fair, however, the little diner has always received the high letter grade of “A” by inspectors of the L.A. Public Health Department. Even so, after consuming a burrito with a liberal dousing of the painfully hot (yet, shigalicious) hot sauce, one tended to pray to any god that would listen that Danny had an extra roll of toilet paper stashed away in that rumbling Pepsi cooler of his. Some nights we attempted to fire up the tiny Weber grill outside, but it wouldn’t be long before everyone’s eyes were stinging from the gassy, chemical fumes of glowing Kingsford, and the even more toxic bum piss that permeated the parking lot and dirty alleyway.

When the loft got too stuffy, there were drunken excursions to Jumbo’s Clown Room, a Hollywood landmark of sorts where wannabe starlets and over-the-hill strippers pole danced as patrons stuffed dollar bills into their g-strings, and the more sensible merely applauded the burlesque. That’s right, we were broke. No, actually, sometimes in the Jumbo’s of old, one even felt fortunate that the previous night’s brugmansia tea recipe (Tree Datura) had partially blinded some of those who partook of the bitter concoction. I knew that great jazz bands often played at a club called “The Baked Potato” over the hill in Studio City, but who in the fuck could afford to go there! What with the high cover charge and two drink minimum. At least there was no cover at Jumbo’s.

Other field trips were taken to Mount Pinos in the Los Padres National Forest. From the high elevation with its glittering infinity of stars, we had fun with the dozens of geeky amateur astronomers with their powerful optics trained on distant celestial objects. I remember one illustrious and quite beshroomed Lodge Brother would politely ask to take a peek through a person’s telescope, at which time he would shout at the top of his lungs, “FUCK!!! LOOK AT THAT SHIT!” He would then move over to the next guy’s telescope and quietly ask if he could take quick look into the viewfinder? No matter what astronomical feature the telescope was positioned on and tracking, our smirking friend would once again (jokingly) shout, “GODDAMN!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SHIT!” Soon, all of the geeks were inviting him over to show him the nebula in their own viewfinders, evidently oblivious of his mocking antics. SHIT!!! THAT CAN’T BE REAL! THAT AIN’T FUCKING REAL!!!

Often times though, we couldn’t make it out of the loft’s clusterfuck of a parking lot. Before the sun came up, we would actually spend hours moving and repositioning cars just so that one person could leave. And if some unfortunate soul parked their luxury car in the restricted loft parking lot because they couldn’t find a space (or were too cheap to valet) on the boulevard, Danny’s doorstep QUICKLY became a driving range with teed-up golf balls. I recall a loud, sickening thud as a Lodge Brother once sliced his shot directly into the door of a new BMW, much to the horror and utter disbelieve of its owner and his fashionably dressed, attractive dinner date. Too bad he didn’t read the signs posted?

Meanwhile, Tool (so that’s what they were called!) began to play the L.A. club circuit, attracting an ever-increasing audience and thus gaining more exposure with each show. Though I personally only attended a few of these shows at clubs called “The Gaslight”, “Raji’s” , “Club Lingerie”, and “The Opium Den (?)” , I was there when the band signed Ted Gardner to be their manager. I also happened to be at “Coconut Teasers” on Sunset when they got their first record deal with Zoo Entertainment. (Ah, the good old 72826-SATAN demo cassette!)

I still remember when, after the show, as the band members loaded their equipment into a rental van, Ted flaunted a twenty-dollar bill, handing it to one of the guys for all of them to go “get a cup of coffee.” One of guys wanted to go to a nearby Denny’s. “No one plans or thinks about going to Denny’s”, I chided him. “You just materialize inside Denny’s. Hey, did you know that some Denny’s used to be “Sambo’s – before the chain was forced to close due to non-Qabalistically-based pressure and lawsuits from certain activists in the black community. How long do you think it took to make the changeover to become a Denny’s? Maybe six hours? Five? Today, only one Sambo’s is left, and not in a parallel continua, but in Santa Barbara.” It was probably right then and there that at least one of the guys thought that I should probably someday write the band’s newsletter.

Touring and record sales from 1992’s “Opiate”, and 1993’s “Undertow” enabled Tool’s skinman to add a few nice touches to the loft. First came a foosball table, and then a video arcade game. I think it was called “Tempest”, but it might have been “Polybius.” New carpet was laid down, with exactly who we thought it would be spilling the first beer (much to Maynard’s chagrin). Out in the parking lot gleamed an emerald green beamer from the 1970’s that actually started… most of the time. There still wasn’t any air-conditioning in the loft – even performing on the main stage at Lollapalooza couldn’t make that happen. However, the inside of the rusting Pepsi cooler had finally been emptied out so that the layers of viscous greenish slime that had accumulated over the years could be scrubbed clean prior to being filled with twelve-packs of imported beer left over from the rider. While drinking these delightful things we listened to cassettes of Buddy Rich threatening his band members with blows to the head if he heard anymore clams. There were also the taped prank phone calls of old friends from Kansas (similar to the Jerky Boys), the KKK rants of singer Johnny Rebel, and the schizophrenic paranoia of Francis E. Deck. If we ever got bored, sometimes Danny would turn out the lights and whale on a golf ball inside the loft’s back room. Whenever this happened, I would immediately dive on the closest couch and cover my head with a cushion as the ball ricocheted for what seemed an eternity off the brick walls with their murals of non-Euclidian geometry.

Tool bassist Paul D’Amour often attended these gatherings, Danny having bonded with him during the tours. I didn’t see much of Maynard at night, though any sarcastic wit was certainly appreciated (and I’m not being sarcastic). Adam also didn’t hang out at the loft after band rehearsals, though he did occasional throw parties at his rented house in Burbank – a place where daily realities were veiled by layers of blue crushed velvet draped over most windows.

One day I was invited by Danny to attend a party thrown by the president of Zoo Records. There would be plenty of booze and great food he assured me. Shortly after arriving at this mansion in Beverly Hills (or was it Benedict Canyon?), while taking Danny up on the free drinks and catered grub, the label honcho tapped a glass with his fork and began to tell everyone just how proud he was of Tool for achieving gold record status. What? I had no idea. Danny was so modest that he never mentioned this. “You have a gold record”, I asked? “Yeah” he replied with a look of disgust while sneaking some food stuffed in a napkin inside his pocket. “No good bands have gold records”, he added. So, that’s why he didn’t say anything. Suddenly, though, it seemed a bit strange that he was loading his pockets with left over food. Even so, I quickly followed his lead…

And then one early morning (4:31 PST to be precise) on January 17, 1994 (January 17 having long been a date of great importance to the Lodge), the dusty, piss-bespattered gold record award for “Undertow” that was hanging crooked in the loft’s tiny bathroom was violently shaken from the wall and clattered onto the floor amid a deafening roar.

The Northridge earthquake had just occurred, and the old brick structure rocked and swayed in pitch-blackness for at least 15 terrifying seconds after the initial jolt. In the building next to the loft, Adam and his crew were shooting Tool’s next video. When everyone finally made it out safely and gathered in the parking lot with frayed nerves, Danny couldn’t help but wonder if this was the end of the loft? Was it up to code, or would it be red-tagged? Indeed, would another crack appear for the Devil to slip through?

I had left my leather jacket at the loft the night before and thought I should grab it before going to the Tool show that was set to start in less than an hour at the Olympic Auditorium (which I believe was the L.A. venue back in 1995). Strangely enough, when I pulled into the empty parking lot, I noticed that the loft’s heavy door was pushed open. Although I had my own set of keys, it was obvious that someone was inside. Pulling the screeching door further open, I proceeded into the darkness, glancing up a television flickering in the actual loft area. “Hello?” I called, noticing the silhouette of a figure that appeared to be transfixed by the opera that he was watching (this was either Giuseppe Verdi’s “Aida” or Philip Glass’s “Akhnaten” – I can’t remember which.) “Hello!” I shouted again over the dramatic music, until the figure turned to his left and peered down at me. “GodDAMNya, Blair!” rang Danny’s familiar voice. Needless to say, I was a bit surprised by this video detention. “Don’t you have a big show tonight”, I asked? “Yeah!” was his enthusiastic reply before turning back to the operatic pageantry that had so entranced him. After glancing at a digital clock, he then added, “I should probably get going before too long.” “But isn’t your car in the shop?” I reminded him. “Yeah” he shrugged… “Want me to give you a ride?” After a moment’s hesitation: “Yeah, that would be cool.” While waiting for my laundry to dry or getting my oil changed, I sometimes still wonder how he was planning to get to the venue had I not decided at the last minute to retrieve my jacket. One thing’s for sure, though. He would have figured out a way. For all the close calls over all the years – and there have been… dozens, torturing many a tour manager (not to mention band mates) - Danny has NEVER been ‘late’ for a show (often sitting down behind the kit with seconds to spare).

It was around this same time that I became friends with the members of Pigmy Love Circus. I met Shephard “Shep” Stevenson first (even though we were in the same 2nd grade class in France – more about this later). Danny and I had been up most of the night debating what might have happened if there hadn’t been a lack of jet fuel for all the Messerschmitt Me 262s in production during WWII. It wasn’t until the sun was about to come up that I plopped down on a worn couch and he climbed up to his cold waterbed. Seconds later in stormed Shep, totting a 12 pack of Budweiser. He shouted up at Danny, who squinted over the railing to see who was there. As Shep offered him a can of Bud, I watched in horror to see what he would do? The one thing about Danny is that he hates beer in cans. The other thing is that he dislikes all domestic beer, always preferring imports. But it seemed that he had no choice. Reluctantly, he accepted it, at which time Shep handed him another one, so that Danny (at 5:55 in the morning, and still unsure exactly how many Me 262s had been put into production) was now holding two miserable cans of warm Budweiser, one in each hand. Shep then tossed a couple at me as I feigned sleep on the couch. And so that’s how I met Shep (again).

The next time I saw Shep wasn’t at the loft, but it was the one time that Danny and I almost didn’t make it back to the place. While visiting the Pigmy bassist at the Hollywood apartment that he shared with his girlfriend, I was admiring some of the paintings that she had done. I was particularly impressed with her use of interference acrylics, and asked Shep about it. Even though it was very late at night, and his girlfriend was asleep upstairs, he advocated that I go ask her about it. Accordingly, I headed up the stairs and walked into the bedroom where she was lying completely naked on top of the covers. Awkward situation? Evidently not. When I complimented her on her artistic output and enquired about the pearlescent effects, without the slightest hesitation or least trace of bashfulness, she began to explain about applying the transparent glaze, viewing angles, and optical characteristics. Wow, Shep had a cool girlfriend! (Or… was she merely his roommate?)

At any rate, it was while returning to the loft in the wee hours on Danny’s decrepit motorcycle that we encountered one of the most surreal (and terrifying) scenes that we could ever imagine. Somewhere between the “El Compadre” Mexican restaurant and the loft, Danny’s bike (with me seated on the back) stalled out. Looking around in the darkness, through a slight layer of early morning fog, we could see two Hispanic street gangs slowly approaching each other, with us stuck right dab in the middle. As I remember, there were about six to eight dudes on each side – all of them brandishing crude weapons, including chains, clubs studded with nails, pipes, tire-irons, cudgels, and I swear what looked like a medieval mace. (Only razor-brimmed sombreros and flaming margaritas would have made the scene more Tarantino-esque!). Forming a straight line, they continued towards each other, silent and expressionless, seemingly oblivious to our presence as Danny frantically attempted to start the motorcycle. When they were only several feet away, and I thought for certain that we were going to be stabbed or bludgeoned to death, with Hollywood screenplay timing, the damn bike started, and we squealed away in a cloud of smoke, never looking back. For a couple of products of mid-western suburbia, needless to say, the entire episode was quite bizarre.

Gang types sometimes also hung out in the loft’s parking lot. These were mostly young Armenians, and they usually didn’t bother any of us. However, one night as Danny was returning home, he was approached by several figures who, intoxicated and antagonistic, were attempting to initiate some kind of violent confrontation. Before things got ugly, Danny managed to stick his key into the heavy padlock, and quickly slipped inside the now impenetrable fortress. A day or so later, Danny recognized the main instigator at a nearby gas station. Still irate about having his life threatened by a group of street thugs, it was now Danny’s turn to confront the guy. Without all his buddies, the dude backed off, repeating over and over that he didn’t want any trouble. Fortunately for all, Danny maintained his composure and restrained from pulling out the sawed-off shotgun that was in his trunk. Back then Danny was still more Kansas than Hollywood, and with or without any Hershey squirts, the guy was lucky to get out of Dodge…

After this troubling incident, there were a few more showdowns of sorts with the Armenians, but these were mostly harmless pranks involving stink bombs (albeit, industrial strength stink bombs!). As we entertained ourselves inside the loft, our mischievous friends would strategically place a small vial containing ammonium sulfide in the door hinge so that once opened the glass would break, thus releasing the unpleasant aroma. This worked once or twice, but soon we recovered an intact vial. Not to be outwitted, or perhaps just to break the July lethargy, latter that night, Marko (“Die Eier Von Satan”) crept over to one of the perpetrators’ brand new Jeep Wrangler and finding the canvas door unzipped, doused the fresh interior with the abominable funk.

When the Pigmy Love Circus was in town, as I recall, the loft became quite boisterous. When not guzzling brew and working on new riffs, they kept Danny’s little slice of Arcadia in check – helping to police the area from any crack addicts that might be breaking into cars, or harassing shady characters loitering near the entrance, and scaring off transients crapping behind the dumpster. The mere thought of big Mike Savage using a chain link fence as a human cheese grater should have kept most troublemakers away. Of course, most often, the Pigmies preferred to fight one another – that is until a new rule was instituted that stated before any roughhousing commenced, those involved first had to remove all of their clothing. This was a rule that was not to be breached.

As Tool became bigger and bigger, there were lots of parties at the loft, but as to exactly who was racking up points on the Tempest machine or losing badly to Danny at foosball, I wasn’t sure. At the time, I didn’t know Lollapalooza from a sousaphone, and I certainly wasn’t acquainted with who was and who wasn’t an alternative metal luminary. All I knew was that if one of them happened to crash at the loft, and they were a sleepwalker, it wasn’t okay for that person to pull out his dick and take a piss in the noisy Pepsi cooler. I do, however, remember one night seeing Jaz Coleman of “Killing Joke” playing a terribly out of tune piano in a dark corner, and his band mate Geordie Walker holding court at the smoky makeshift bar. Tom Morello, Mike Patton, and Danny Lohner also frequented these gatherings, but, again, most of those who dropped by were unknown to me at the time. (Note: After Danny’s treasured PLC leather jacket was stolen by someone during one of these blowouts, those who gravitated to the loft were more carefully screened.)

While on the subject of parties at the loft, my absolute favorite story happened on a night that I may or may not have even been there. Such was the number of revelers spilling drinks that I’m not really sure. Yet, I’ve heard the story so many times that I don’t believe it to be apocryphal. During said party, when it came time to make a beer run, Marko pointed to a certain person that he vaguely knew from some job, and whom he believed to be a bit of a slacker. “It’s about time for YOU to BUY some beer!” Marko commanded. Without making any fuss, the person obliged, leaving the loft and returning about a half hour later with a more that adequate supply of the sudsy stuff (imports, even!). When Marko saw him return in a shiny new Range Rover, he was surprised to say the least. “How in the FUCK did YOU get a Range Rover?” he demanded to know. Well, as it turned out, the guy who Marko believed to be such a Ne’er-do-well wasn’t really that at all. In fact it wasn’t even the same guy – this person merely bearing a slight resemblance to the slacker. The guy was actually David Gahan, singer for Depeche Mode, who, for whatever reason, good-naturedly went on the beer run without saying a word.

Some nights were quieter and honestly I preferred it that way. During these hangs we would listen to Terence McKenna, Bill Hicks, and all the kooks that called in to Art Bell’s “Coast to Coast AM” while discussing our latest occult book acquisitions. If things got too quiet, we’d talk Danny into playing the drum solo from ELP’s “Tank”, which he usually did to perfection. There were also pull-ups contests, shotgun antics, and feeding the feral cats with leftover Thai. And, of course, Jumbos…

Again, I don’t remember seeing much of Maynard when not creating music or rehearsing for shows, although he would occasionally drop by to talk about various topics of interest (I don’t believe wine was one of them – floods, earthquakes and asteroids, perhaps). Sometimes we’d go over to his house and watch the mixed martial arts of the Ultimate Fighting Championship (Gracie, Shamrock, Taktarov, Abbott, etc.), or to nightclubs where he performed in comedy skits. On the other hand, often times Adam wasn’t that far way – laboring through the night on the band’s videos in the adjacent building. Knowing that all of those involved in the claymation process were doomed to a hellish eternity, it only seemed humane to give them a break every now and then. So, that’s when we brought out the potato bazooka. Aerosol powered by either Lysol disinfectant or AquaNet hairspray, a well placed shot would shatter an upper story window and generally disrupt any stop motion animation. After a brief period of inactivity, those at the loft who were foolish enough to approach the other building would invariably be drenched by the 7-11 Big Gulp cups of piss that rained down from above – the video crew’s most effective form of retaliation.

And then one day I learned that Paul (D’Amour) was thinking about leaving the band. Wow! I didn’t know what to think about this, but I sure hoped that things turned out better than the time that he (or a friend of his?), while employed at Arby’s during his formative years, made the decision to feed a stray dog an entire roll the fast food chain’s salty mystery meat (roast beef, that is). With Paul’s departure, several excellent bass guitarists auditioned for the band, with, as everyone now knows, Justin ultimately being chosen. This, I thought, could change things considerably. Paul could hang with the best of them. Did this Justin guy even party?

“Aenima” was the first Tool project that I was asked to contribute something to, although this was merely a small part of the art design for the import, which I collaborated on with Shep’s talented girlfriend. (Or… was she merely his roommate?) Another thing about the “Aenima” recording that I remember, was a plan devised at the loft to create the ultimate hidden track. This was inspired by the whole Klaatu/Beatles thing, but the problem of actually pulling it off would take a lot more thought.

“Aenima” was also around the time that I was introduced to the good folks at “Retinalogic.” Besides all the gatherings up at Dr. Timothy Leary’s house, under careful supervision, several experiments involving dissociative anesthetics were conducted by certain Lodge members at the loft. However, for me personally, rather than encountering any sagacious glowing ketamentals in the Bardo, black squatamaudars waltzed between the walls of my seemingly detached skull. At other times I felt as if I’d simply been given the “Himalayan Suspender” by Von Zipper, himself (as taught by Professor Sutwell). Even worse, once, while immobilized on a threadbare saggy couch that had become my velvet-lined coffin, I could make out Adam standing over me with his Silverburst, weaving a droning, nightmarish soundscape. The best way for me to describe these dissociates, was that they turned my Curly into a Shemp.

Without any air-conditioning, on particularly hot nights, Danny would often leave the loft door cracked. On one such evening, over pints of Theakston’s Old Peculiar, “Aenima” engineer and co-producer David Bottrill, Justin (so, Justin did occasionally partake of a drop of the creature), Danny and I were having a friendly debate about guns in America. The Brits considered the cons, while Danny and I (Midwestern transplants that hadn’t kicked all the sod off our boots) focused on the pros. Midway during the calm discussion, I happened to notice that one of L.A.’s finest had entered the building, and was quietly approaching us with his gun drawn. Realizing that I saw him, he put his index finger to his lips, indicating that I remain silent. Both Bottrill and Justin had their backs to the police officer as he suddenly grabbed David by the shoulder. Now, I’m not going to say that one of L.A.’s finest (a good friend of ours) pressed his Beretta (or was it a Glock?) against Bottrill’s head and shouted, “Get me a beer from that cooler before I blow off your motherfucking bald head!”, but I will say that the officer’s actions (whatever they might have been) didn’t exactly help our pro-gun argument.

With deafeningly loud music peeling the Lissitsky murals right of the brick walls, Danny and I and another bored soul were searching for anything of interest in the large cardboard boxes of Tool’s fan mail that had been sitting at the loft for several months now. Although the various-sized envelopes had all been previously opened (screened) by the band’s management, they nevertheless might have missed something of value, such as collectble peyote buttons, “Wise” brand potato chips, or even a petrified “16th Digit of the Moon” kala. We weren’t having much luck until Danny read a letter from a kid in the Pacific Northwest who included a photo of himself together with a prized pig named “Dirty Mary” that he had raised from a… piglet (I guess they’re called*) and had recently sold for $1.29 a pound. At first Danny thought this was a joke, and even thought that he knew whom the perpetrator might be. Still, he decided to call the phone number that had been provided, even though, as I reminded him, it was about 3:30 in the morning. After a few rings, the kid’s mom picked up. “Hi, is Ryan there?” Danny asked. “Just a minute” was her friendly reply. Seconds later the guy was on the phone. “Hey man, this is Danny Carey. Was that really your pig?” “Yeah” was the nonplussed response. Well, after talking for about 45 minutes about raising pigs and other matters of mutual interest, Danny began to experience problems with the phone (before hanging up, however, he gave Ryan his home phone number and invited him to the next Tool show). Concerned now more about his broken phone/answering machine, as he removed the screws and opened the plastic casing, dozens upon dozens of roaches poured out and scattered across the counter.

* I don’t partake of the pig, and you’ll soon know why.

As the fates would have it, Frater Xaphan (as I now refer to Ryan), soon became really close friends with Danny, Adam, and Maynard, spending a lot of time (even living) at all of their houses, and traveling with them. Besides being highly intelligent and very athletic (he possibly could have pitched in the majors), Frater Xaphan also turned out to be a natural occultist, able to grasp the meanings of esoteric symbols and concepts, and quickly assimilate the abstruse literature (rest assured that all the roaches was merely a coincidence). Therefore, he was very involved in the design and painting of several of Danny’s ensigiled talismanic boards. And although I’m sure that the members of Tool read all of their fan mail, Ryan’s was one of the few (other than e-mail) that a band member has personally responded to. Well, besides the photo sent from the girl that claimed to have worked for Hooters in Atlantis. What was her name again?.. Lemuria?

Up until this point, I hadn’t really listened to that much Tool, and was only familiar with the song “Opiate” and Undertow’s “Sober” – a song that Maynard was instrumental (no pun intended) in writing, picking up Paul’s bass at a jam session at the loft one day and playing the now famous riff for the other band members. However, while driving through the Southwestern desert by myself, I put in the “Aenima” CD and found myself really liking it. I was particularly digging “Third Eye” in the barren surroundings until I got stuck behind a truck that was hauling hogs. Now, this was a bright, terribly hot afternoon, and saliva from the living cargo was splattering on my windshield. I then made the mistake of turning on my wipers, which only smeared the viscid, ropy, mucilaginous stuff into a foul, stomach-churning, slick white layer. And I used to enjoy BLTs. How about you?.. Anyway, with my new Tool break though, others were no longer disgustipated because I didn’t know a certain tune. Before this, rather than pushit, sometimes part of me just wanted to crawl away. (Ah, so that’s why Ryan sent the photo of his award winning pig!)

Besides Danny’s close friends, another fixture at the loft in the “Aenima” days was his younger brother Dale Carey. Not only a good musician in his own right, Dale was also a walking encyclopedia of knowledge. He also held the distinction of being the only person who could do more pull-ups at the loft than Danny, whose record he broke one memorable night.* Because of his wide-ranging knowledge, I would often try to trip him up by saying things like, “I didn’t know that Louis Pasteur also invented chocolate milk”, or “Did you know that Marie Curie came up with the original idea for the Slinky?” Or even, “Besides the cotton gin, did you know that Eli Whitney also invented a stationary bicycle-powered shower?” Most of the time Dale wouldn’t bite. He’d just glare at me and take another drink of Budweiser. When the band was on the road, Dale became the loft’s sentinel, although I seem to remember a prized guitar or something having gone missing after one tour. Not to worry, though, Danny had found – literally stumbled over - a better one that had been left in an alleyway by someone on that same tour.

* Danny recently informed me that while it is true that on one particular night his brother did more pull ups than he, that he (Danny) still held the over all record for the most ever pull ups at the loft.

One night Danny introduced me to some bokachoda named Aloke Dutta who had recently moved from Austin, Texas. Supposedly, Aloke could do things with his fingers that seemed inconceivable. He could also play the tabla (i.e. Bengali bongos) pretty well, or so I was told. Great, with Aloke hanging out perhaps he’d give me some tips on how to improve my chicken vindaloo. “Add some salt, fucker” he suggested in his Bengali accent, before lighting up another Marlboro. With the vindaloo thus perfected, it was now fit to be served to a king. Well, how about a member of Queen. Yep, at the risk of name-dropping, Brian May once broke bread with us during a vindaloo feast, although this was at Danny’s… house. Yes, you read that correctly. With the success of “Aenima”, and a lot of touring, Danny was finally going to move out of the loft and into an… apartment. (Of course a chick was involved.) But not just any apartment – Danny was going to be living in the historic Ravenswood – the prestigious former home of Mae West. He wasn’t there long, though (and not because the building is haunted), only for several months while his newly purchased house was being given a thorough face-lift. (Of course a chick was involved.)

Meanwhile back at the loft: With Damien Storm’s “Zekey Zombie” blasting on the stereo, I thought that I heard someone knocking at the door. Opening it, I saw a young dude standing there with a big grin on the face. “Do you want to look at some tits?” I asked him. “Sure” he said. “Good, because we’re going to hit Jumbo’s in about 9 minutes.” The guy introduced himself as Danny’s cousin, Paul Vilas Jones, a story that he’s stuck with ever since (though I’m still trying to corroborate it). “Great, but that doesn’t give you much time to clean the slime out of the Pepsi cooler”, I told him. “Ha Ha… Really?” “Well, how many singles do you think you’ll need while looking at these tits?”

I’m not sure why I stopped at the loft on that day, but as I approached the closed door I could hear Tool playing inside. Though the sound was a bit muffled, I was immediately taken by a particular bassline that Justin was playing over and over. Not wanting to interrupt them, I waited until they took a break. Once inside, after checking the Dry-Erase board, I saw that the song was tentatively called “Red” (Later this was changed to “The Patient.”) Watching Justin’s skillful use of the bass’s tone control to create a wah effect, I was reminded of a night in Las Vegas not that long ago. My brother and I were staying in a luxury suite at the HardRock hotel and casino, and Justin and some friends visiting from England were partying with us. We had the spacious room’s entertainment center turned up to the maximum ‘HardRock’ volume while listening to a rather psychedelic rendition of “All Along the Watchtower.” When the song ended, Justin asked, “Who is this that you’re playing?” Seriously? I was a bit dumbfounded. Was he only kidding, or could it be possible that Justin didn’t know who Jimi Hendrix was? “Jimi Hendrix”, my bother replied. “I really like it!” said the new Tool bassist. Whatever the case, Justin soon became an avid (to put it mildly) Hendrix fan, as anyone on the band’s tour bus can attest to. Some nights a Hendrix recording would play for hours on a loop until someone – usually Danny – would insist on playing something else.

Although I immediately took a liking to “The Patient”, the same couldn’t be said for the other jam tracks that Tool was working on for the band’s next record. I recall on numerous occasions Danny playing these lengthy, partially written songs on his house and car stereo, not necessarily to get feedback, but most likely for the purpose of tweaking his drum parts. And although they were complex musical journeys performed by excellent players, there was nevertheless something missing. Frankly, I didn’t think the material was nearly as good as the tracks on their previous album “Aenima.” Again, something was missing. Well, DUH! What was missing was Maynard. With the addition of his vocal melodies and lyrics, the arrangements had become transformed into something truly wonderful. Now, it sounded like Tool. However, with that said, it is my personal opinion that in order to do his vocal magic, it certainly doesn’t hurt to have the right music in the first place in which to create and lay down the melodies over. (Duh, again.) In other words, if ever there were a band in which all of the contributors were equal in importance, it would be Tool. As it turned out, “Lateralus” quickly became my favorite Tool recording (With “10,000 Days” running a very close second).

As for track #13, “Faaip De Oiad”, which in the Enochian language translates as “Voice(s) of God”, there’s an interesting story behind it that I’d like to share with you (though not in its entirety). Originally, Danny’s segue on Lateralus was going to be a much more elaborate production, complete with Enochian verses, Calls, etc. (These were later published in my book “IJYNX” as” Da’ath of Babalon”). While working on the ever so important correct pronunciation of these Enochian verses (again, for Danny’s segue) at my parents’ house in Southern Illinois over the X-mas holidays, at some point I fell asleep, only to be awakened by an incredibly intense ‘dream’ around 4:00 am (or thereabout). This ‘dream’ was of something that I can’t really describe, other than to say that it appeared as if some kind of strangely complex bio-machine was juggling lightning-fast colorful orbs of energy. The next day (while back in Los Angeles and listening to Art Bell) I learned that in the early hours of January 5th, 2000 multiple police officers witnessed a huge, silent black triangular craft floating over a number of small Illinois towns – including (it would later be revealed) my parents’ neighborhood in O’Fallon, Illinois. This was the now famous “Illinois Triangle.”

But, getting back to Danny’s segue for Laturalus. Due to time constraints and other factors, the original idea was eventually scratched. In the meantime, Danny had this great sample of some defective reverb unit in the loft that he had saved, knowing that someday he would use it on a recording. One night while I was at home listening to Art Bell’s “Coast To Coast AM” radio program, for some reason I switched on the radio’s cassette recorder. And that’s when it happened – the frantic call from this paranoid fellow who claimed to be a ex-employee at Area 51 and was now divulging what was really going on at the secret military installation until a major satellite outage knocked him (and the show) off the air. Taking the tape to the loft the next night so that Danny could hear it, he was not only blown away, but also decided to use the Art Bell excerpt in the dramatic “Faaip De Oiad.” But that’s not the end of the story. After the piece had been recorded, a few of us were listening to it at the loft when someone smelled something burning. Walking into the back room, we could see that the Testor’s model kit of the S-4 “Sport Model” alien spacecraft that was suspended from the ceiling by wires had caught on fire. Somebody had moved a lit candleholder to close to it, which melted the plastic in a certain area before catching on fire. With the flames extinguished, where the plastic had melted, one could now see the anti-matter reactor and gravity amplifiers inside. (You could also see the small alien figures inside that I had painted in cheesy 1950s sci-fi style sparkling space uniforms). The fire was just another coincidence, I’m sure, but if left unattended, the damn thing could have burned down the loft. I’m glad that we didn’t decide to go to Jumbo’s that night…

Ah, Jumbo’s. After a Lakers basketball game, Danny, Adam, Justin and I were returning to the loft in a hired limo when someone thought that it would be a good idea to stop at Jumbo’s Clown Room first. While having a few beers and enjoying the burlesque (yes, the girl was… dancing to “Sober”), Justin set a wad of money including a $20.00 dollar bill onto the stage while searching for some singles. Before Adam (or was it Danny?) could pick it up, the… dancer quickly (nay, instantly) snatched it along with her other tips (all of which were singles). When someone said that Justin had just set the money there while looking for singles, the… dancer replied by informing us “Any fucking thing on the fucking stage is fucking mine to fucking take!” To which I calmly responded: “Miss, we totally understand that it’s your money. But is it really necessary to use that kind of language?” For a second everything went silent. She then replied with an emphatic “FUCK YOU!” Time to head back to the loft.

(Note: Before continuing with the final part of my “Tales from the Loft” series of newsletters, I would first like to say to those who think that I have stretched the truth or deliberately fabricated some of the stories, that this is absolutely not the case. Save perhaps for some minor details, to the best of my recollection, everything has been described exactly as it really happened. When the 13th-century Venetian explorer Marco Polo wrote about his adventures in ancient Cathay (and other parts of Asia), because the colorful accounts seemed too fantastic to be true, he was accused by many of his European readers of embellishment. So much so, in fact, that while lying on his deathbed, the parish priest pleaded for the writer to recant all of his lies. To which the great explorer replied, “I haven’t told half of what I saw.” Similarly, with the “Tales from the Loft”, far from having fudged the truth or gone to extremes, I can assure you that what I’ve written represents only a (very) small portion of what I’ve seen over the years. You might even say that – all in all – it’s quite a tame account…)

Having recently moved out of the Ravenswood apartments, and with the extensive remodeling of his new house now complete, Danny invited Pigmy Love Circus bassist Shepherd Stevenson and myself over for some late night drinks. Sitting in lawn chairs at the top of the property while enjoying a spectacular view of the twinkling lights of Hollywood below, as Shep and I were talking about some childhood antics, we were surprised to realize that we were classmates in the second grade while living in Evreux, France in the early 1960s (Before my dad was transferred to Chateauroux-Deols). At the time, both of our fathers were stationed at the (then) front line Cold War Air Force Base (Evreux-Fauville), where they both flew C-130s. I still vividly remembered second grade at Evreux for its dreadful cafeteria fare of Vienna sausages and tepid carrot juice. The only deviation to this culinary déjà vu was a buttery, flaky Epiphany cake (Gallette des Rois) containing a plastic jeweled ring baked inside it. (Naturally, at the time, I was completely unaware of its highly esoteric meaning.) Also indelibly etched in my brain was the strange day when a woman teacher, either suffering from a nervous breakdown or having a psychotic episode, went on a violent tirade about the color ‘green’, destroying anything in the class room of that shade, and even attempting to force a young student who was a girl scout to remove her dress!

As we continued reminiscing about the school at Evreux, suddenly the ground began to shake. As it did so, birds scattered noisily from trees and deer fled quickly from the nearby woods. Turning around, we watched as distant electrical transformers exploded – lighting up the sky with green and purple flashes. We then checked to see if any of the tall buildings in Hollywood were swaying. They weren’t. The gentle rolling motion was caused by the 2005 Yucaipa earthquake which, having a magnitude of 4.9, was felt across much of southern California. Unlike the Northridge quake, though, riding this baby out was actually kind of fun, especially since we seemed to be in no danger whatsoever while seated on a nearly barren hilltop.

Although it was close to 2:00 AM, light pollution and a scattered marine layer made it appear as if it were an overcast afternoon. Through the cacophony of car alarms, barking dogs, and excited neighbors waking up, I could hear Danny’s (then) Dutch wife shouting at him from their house below. “Danny, did you not feel the earthquake!” “Yeah!” he called back. “Why did you not check to see that we are okay?” she then began repeating (meaning her and her dog) in a tone that measured at least a magnitude of 3.5. As we clambered down the hill, Danny shouted back, “We were just about to come down and make some more margaritas!” Well, even though I knew that everything was fine with the dog, I somehow didn’t think this was the absolute best answer he could have given her. Hissing, sparking downed wires or lawn furniture swallowed by gaping chasms would have both been better than the nonchalant reply that we had waited until we needed to refill our margarita glasses. But it was the truth (and rather funny). Even so, I thought it might just be a good time to head to the shabby couches at the loft…

Whether or not the word had gotten out about certain duffers, not many Thai restaurant customers attempted to cheat the parking meters by sneaking their BMWs into the limited spaces at the loft. But that didn’t necessarily mean the end to nighttime golf. Although this didn’t involve hitting flaming gutta-percha balls ala Sir Francis Dashwood and his quasi-masonic Hellfire Club, I did on at least one occasion witness some nice shots on an asphalt fairway.

With buckets of Titleists (probably retrieved from some murky pond in Kansas) placed on the sidewalk, Danny and a friend were teeing off along the neon-splashed boulevard. After a few whiffs with their woods, during a particularly well-driven shot, I noticed the brake lights and a quick U-turn of a black and white unit. As the officer inside gunned the engine, most of us made it to the relative safety of the brick fortress. Danny and his friend didn’t. However, they did manage to hide the buckets of balls and clubs before the cops pulled into the parking lot with their lights flashing. When questioned by the police officers about somebody whacking golf balls on the boulevard, Danny mumbled something about once seeing the ghost of Seamus MacDuff on Lucifer’s Rug at Blackheath. When they didn’t buy this, he said that he and his friend weren’t causing any trouble – they were just releasing some stress, and were about to go inside the “clubhouse.” Well, as it turned out, one of the officers knew who Danny was, and had even been inside the loft on one occasion. In being somewhat of a Tool fan, himself, he certainly didn’t equate golf balls bouncing off car roofs and store awnings with the firing of an UZI or MAC-10.

I had the good fortune to meet a lot of people at the loft over the years – most of them being old friends of Danny’s like Chris Pitman and Kent Brisley, who had been band mates with the Tool drummer back in his earlier Kansas City club circuit days. Ben Sherazi from Canada was certainly aware of “Thirsty Thursday”, not to mention “Why not Wednesday?”, so we immediately hit it off. Add to the mix Sash Popovic (from Australia), Vince De Franco (from Philly on a parallel earth), and Rich Estrada (who couldn’t even speak Spanish in K.C. Misery), and you had to take a number to spatter piss on the gold record awards. Along with these musical transplants, one of Danny’s close friends was an actor named Angelo Spizzirri, who unlike the rest of us was a native Angelino.

Danny had befriended Angelo when the aspiring actor was still in his teens, having met him at the YMCA where they often played basketball (Later, both would play on the same team in the Hollywood Celebrity League). Though he had acted in numerous television series, Angelo’s most well known role was his portrayal of a high school baseball catcher (named Joel De La Garza) in the film “The Rookie.” This Disney picture was based on the true story of Jim Morris, a high school science teacher with a great pitching arm who finally makes it to the major league at an age when most players were calling it quits. Oddly enough, just when our friend’s career as an actor was taking off, Angelo told us that he was over the whole thing. Whether or not this was due to his role in “Underclassmen” I’m not sure, but the talented actor admittedly took the money and ran with that one! As if to make sure that he wouldn’t be tempted to go to any further auditions, he covered himself with tattoos (frowned upon then by the Disney moguls), and took to Jack Daniels chased with Budweisers. One of his favorite lines after hard nights at the loft was to leave a voice message the following afternoon saying that “With friends like you, who needs enemies.”

Being also good friends with Tim Mahoney (guitarist with 311, and another often seen face at the loft), Angelo decided that he wanted to be part of the music business. Soon, he’d become the tour manager for “Incubus”, and really seemed to be enjoying the road. It was around this time that he was found dead in his Studio City apartment. Although I am aware of the cause of his death, in reading anything about it on the Internet, it always says that the former actor died from undisclosed causes, a mystery that I’m happy to leave at that. Angelo was one of the funniest people that I’ve ever met, and we had a great time hanging with Tool during one of their European tours (where in the Netherlands we both had a very difficult time finding that condiment known as mustard). To this day, as a memorial of sorts, there is still a bottle of Budweiser in the rusted Pepsi cooler at the loft that is never to be opened.

“You’re going to like one of the new tunes”, Maynard said to me at the loft one afternoon as the band was putting the finishing touches on a certain song that was to be included on their next record. The song he was referring to turned out to be entitled “Rosetta Stoned”, and, once again, the vocals that Maynard added really enhanced the music, with the rapid-fire narration at the beginning being decidedly ingenious. In the years since “10,000 Days” was released, many have wondered what the lyrics to “Rosetta Stoned” are really about. Although only Maynard knows for sure (perhaps the true meaning/message is left up to the individual’s own interpretation?), the following story might have, at least, in part, inspired the cryptic wording of what would seem to involve a rather disturbing encounter with an alien presence:

"All righty then… Picture this if you will:" Danny and I are fooling around with his new Paiste rotosound #2 one night at the loft when, over the loud, sustained bell-like tone, there is a knock on the door. Opening it, we see “Green Jello” mastermind Bill Manspeaker standing there holding a small photo album that he is anxious for us to take a look at. What the book contained were photographs of desert landscapes in California’s Yucca Valley, along with the interior of the famous 16-sided domed structure that housed a mysterious device called the Integratron.

Upon closer examination, each photo also contains what appear to be strange glowing orbs that Bill claimed were not visible when he took the shots. Whether or not these were merely an artifact of the film process, debris on the camera lens, or, for those who are inclined to believe such things, alien intelligences known as etherians who are rendered nearly invisible by crystal batteries, I do not know, but Bill was still freaked out by them and had a whopper of a tale to tell in connection with the photos which Danny and I were eager to hear:

While visiting certain parts of the Yucca Valley, friends of Bill’s claimed that they witnessed anomalous lights in the sky, as well as experiencing a strange physical sensation that was associated with them. Strangest of all were telepathic commands that directed his friends to a grid of what they perceived (or were told) to be some kind of geo-mystical “safety zones” that would protect them from being abducted by the possibly malevolent entities. The story got even more bizarre in that the anti-abduction measures might not have worked, and that’s where the “Rosetta Stoned” connection possibly comes into play. After showing us the photos with orbs, I asked Bill if he knew anything about the iconic Integratron or the ufological history of the Landers area?

When he replied that he didn’t know much, I first informed him that there had long been rumors in the area of cattle mutilations and human disappearances. I then told him that the Integratron was conceived by George Van Tassel, one of the most famous of the 1950s UFO contactees. During the golden years of the saucer-ride boys, Van Tassel had hosted huge UFO conclaves on his property at Giant Rock Airport (named for the tiny desert air strip that was built near an enormous boulder). Prior to the annual saucer gatherings, Van Tassel had been contacted by an extraterrestrial comity known as “The Council of Seven Lights” – typical 1950s Space Brothers who warned about the evils of atomic weaponry and of man’s depleting of the earth’s natural resources (metals in particular). As a metaphysical crusader, following the etherians’ instructions, he later constructed the Integratron (without using any metal it should be noted) as an energy condenser for both cellular rejuvenation and an acoustically-perfect meditation chamber whereby one is able to tune into the “omni-beam” and telepathically converse with benign otherworldly entities (such as Knut!). Any questions?

On the days that I was invited to hear the progress being made on the new songs, at times there seemed to be a lot of tension in the room. This disquiet was sometimes broken by Maynard joking around in his makeshift vocal booth (Pretending that he was munching on potato chips during the off beats being a real crowd pleaser). Yet on other days, the band really seemed to be enjoying the process, even firing up the old Weber grill outside during lunch breaks. During the writing of what would be the “10,000 Days” album, there also seemed to be better bottles of red wine at the loft, although some of those bequeathed by whomever contained messages written in silver ink advising the recipient, “Don’t share this with your idiot friends!” That’s okay, THEY had their own… Oh No! – There’s only one bottle of Bud left in the Pepsi cooler!

“Wings” was taking a long time to complete (its working title at the time was “Lost Keys” – having nothing to do with Albert Hofmann or LSD bummers – but with the rather more mundane circumstances involving Justin misplacing his car keys), partly because, after initially feeling that it was finished, one of the band members thought it could still be better. Therefore, the guys spent nearly a month trying out different parts until it was finally decided that the song was better as it had originally been written (with the dissident justifying the additional time spent by saying that at least now we KNOW that it couldn’t be improved upon). Ah, to be so passionate about something! (Note: With the level of success that Tool had already achieved, many bands have the tendency to get complacent. I wondered at the time if the members of Tool would be just as enthusiastic when writing their next record, or would they be content to just go through the motions and quickly churn out something of a more banal nature?) Owing to the complexity of the arrangement, in what must have seemed to be a highly challenging “What am I supposed to do with this?” scenario, I believe that the vocals to “Wings” exceeded any band member’s highest expectations. It is worth considering that the extra time spent in an attempt to make changes might have been partly responsible for this? As for the other songs, I still can’t help but wonder if some mischievous action on my part – that of making certain alterations to the song notations and mnemonic triggers on the band’s Dry-Erase board during one night’s festivities might have had something to do with a particular arrangement on “10,000 Days?” Probably not, but you never know…

The loft was now going through many changes. Colorful Malevich and Lissitzky murals flaked away, scattering like dust on a carpet spotted brown from the suds of numerous midnight gatherings. Air-conditioning cooled a large mixing console that once belonged to Rick ‘Super Freak’ James (which Volto! recently used for their soon to be released recording). Around this a state-of-the-art recording studio was built. The vintage arcade game and foos-ball table were cleared out to make way for several large modular synthesizer cabinets, along with other analogue toys dimly flickering but still full of lots of oomph. And with all these changes, the rusty, yet venerable Pepsi cooler remained in place, rumbling away as it kept beers properly chilled. And because it continued to do so, a security system was installed that would make a junkyard dog frown.

Although I had many good times at the loft – one party that I missed was the shooting of the Pigmy Love Circus video for “Drug Run To Fontana.” I’m not sure about some of the props, but the strippers (exotic dancers, rather) were real – probably procured by John Ziegler who, before PLC, Volto!, and Bubbatron, supplemented his guitar teaching income by working as a DJ in some of the city’s finer gentlemen’s clubs. Yep, had I only been in town…

In the first part of this series, I mentioned that every Tool recording was written and arranged at the band’s storied loft. Well, about a month ago I heard it mentioned that the guys were thinking about possibly packing up the gear and going to some isolated location in order to finish writing the next album. As of now, this hasn’t happened, and hopefully they will get the job done in the same place as they’ve done so for all these years. It was probably a good sign then, when Danny recently took on the bi-yearly cleaning of the Pepsi cooler in order to remove the greenish-brown sludge at the bottom. It is likewise a good sign that while in the process he scooped some of the viscous slime into a Styrofoam container and heated it in the microwave before offering it to Adam (or Justin?) as some leftover Thai soup. Needless to say, when he got a whiff of the foul stuff, he almost – I said almost – puked. Now, that’s what I call harmony!

Not wishing to be a distraction, I haven’t dropped by to hear any of the new material yet. However, while at the loft the other night, Danny pointed to the Dry-Erase board and said, “There’s our newest song… No, that one’s finished.” Having pointed to another board on the other side of the room, he corrected himself, “That’s the new one!” Looking at the magic-marker scrawls, the only thing that I could make out that was somewhat helpful in determining the precise nature of the arrangement were the words: NOSE BLEED RIFFS. Now, that should give you a better idea of what’s to come…

Before concluding, I’ve decided to share with you one of my favorite stories that occurred at the loft. This involved a historical collectable (an example of rare exonumia “from the realm of Alabama”) that someone had given to Danny, knowing that he collected weird shit, especially if it was something really unique. About an hour after receiving it, for whatever reason, Danny’s (then) wife showed up. Upon seeing the numismatic curio lying on the couch – highly offended by its intended purpose and symbolic nature – she grabbed the silver dollar sized award token and rushed out of the building. I later learned that she had jumped on her motorcycle and tossed the thing into a dumpster somewhere in Hollywood on her way home. When Danny found out about this later that night, he was understandably pissed. When she wouldn’t reveal the location of the dumpster, he told her that he was going to find it even if he had to search through every dumpster in the city. Moments later he took off on his own motorcycle. Returning the next morning – looking like he’d been up all night (which he had) - Danny opened his palm and showed her the numismatic treasure that he said he’d found after going through several dumpsters. Staring at it with disbelief, she was astonished that he’d managed to retrieve it. How was this possible! Well, what she didn’t know was that the person who had given Danny the historical collectable in the first place, didn’t give him just one… but two identical pieces…