“We’ll never do this again….!”

Adam’s Account Of The Midnight Hour EP
Plans began beneath the meat smoke and the hot sun on a May day in the meadows to make a record. What were the shared ingredients in all the classic records we loved so much? On this particular day we decided, quite possibly wrongly, that it was time. Time to live somewhere idyllic and live and breathe music at all hours of the day.  Why should we make records during the day? Why should we count the clock? Why should we pay someone to engineer our record when we can do that ourselves? Why should life and music be separate? What is a wonder wall?
These questions quickly developed into plans. Me and Andy feverishly rapping axiomatic statements back and forth over infinite bottles and filling ashtrays. Like two demented chimpanzees trying to smash a walnut. Fuck it! We’ll rent a flat and do it all ourselves. If we want reverb we’ll put an amp in the staircase. Thisisgonnabeamazing.
A month later and Andy found a flat. It’s perfect. By the sea. Connected to people he knows and available for August and September.
Let’s drive all over Edinburgh borrowing Amps and Mics and guitars and speakers and leads and drums and a mixing desks and compressors AND a piano from various members of the Edinburgh musical community. Let’s spend 2 weeks literally rebuilding a house.
Let’s jam until 4am playing what probably sounded like the first band I was ever in with my mate Niall and crack the ceiling of the architect’s office below. Let’s play so loud that we can’t hear people knocking on the door to complain. Let’s all sleep in an inebriated pile-up on the living room floor and wake up and do it again.
2 weeks in and we’re ready to record. A fully fledged, well oiled machine. Me, Alex, Andy and Calum are mid way through a take of Wavelength and the door swings open to reveal a couple looking around in slow motion, eyed wide  and jaws open, at the Flintstonian timber structures and spew green foam nailed into the walls and ceilings of their once peaceful and utopian seaside treehouse.
‘You need to leave. You said it would be a folk band. We’ve had complaints from everyone in the street’
Ok. Game over. Band sounds great. We have the equipment. Songs are ready. Shit.
What to do?
Phone mum. Get a lift to my flat with Amps and Mics and guitars and speakers and leads and drums and a mixing desks and compressors and a piano and enough foam to make a shell suit for an elephant.
We need a new space. Demented chimpanzees asking round the pubs. ‘Who’s got a flat to rent? A space? A room? A garage? An office?’ Drive around Edinburgh with a gangster shop owner who offers us a shed that his elderly father is living in. No thanks.
A week of trailing Edinburgh in the festival, drinking shandy, hopelessly depressed. The record is losing momentum.
“Don’t worry! My friend has a living room she can rent you!”
Thank god. Hallelujah. We are saved.
‘”It’s a commune outside of Edinburgh. There’s about ten people living there but they can rent you the living room.”
And so, under the guidance of a topless and deranged Andy Paul, we sang and played for 5 days and nights. 4 broken men. Completing takes between bursts of chainsaw sculpturing drifting through the window and children’s feet hammering above.