Krieger, Robby. Set the Night on Fire:
Sunset Sound Recorders is one of the most historic studios in the world, having produced everything from Exile on Main Street to Purple Rain to the soundtrack to Mary Poppins.
But it was a workshop. No frills. White acoustic tile on the ceiling, gray linoleum on the floor, bare walls, fluorescent lights.
We knew we couldn’t achieve the vibe we needed in a space like that, so we brought in our own lamps, turned off the fluorescents, and lit some candles and incense.
But mood lighting got us only so far. If Jim wanted to re-create that inspired night at the Whisky, he figured he needed to re-create his acid intake as well.
I heard him chanting and pounding on a table in the vending machine area: “Fuck the mother, kill the father! Fuck the mother, kill the father!” I tried to calm him down. “Yeah, right on, man…” “Fuck the mother, kill the father! Fuck the mother, kill the father! That’s it! That’s where I’m at!”
He seemed ready.
We were all experienced enough with acid that we weren’t alarmed or afraid. We were excited. Two takes turned out to be all we needed. We all went home satisfied.
Except Jim.
Still flying on whatever monster dose of acid he had taken, Jim somehow snuck back into the studio when everyone was gone and sprayed the whole place down with a fire extinguisher. He coated our gear in sticky, chemical foam and overturned a couple of those big, standing, sand-filled ashtrays, which combined with the foam to create a disgusting paste all over the floor. Thankfully the mixing console and the master tapes weren’t damaged, but the studio owner wanted to call the cops. Our record label, in a moment of baffling generosity, agreed to cover the cost of the cleanup. And once again, Jim got away with it. I don’t remember him even apologizing for that one, but we were so relieved that we hadn’t lost our record deal we never dared to mention the incident again.
Set the Night on Fire
