Kristin Hersh - Rat Girl

“I can only make breakfast, sorry. And I can’t find any butter.”

I sit down with him. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“Not a problem, Kris.”

I start eating, then stop. “Gil.”

“Yeah?”

“What time is it in England?”

He checks his watch. “About 4 A.M.”

Wow. “Ivo’s great.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Ivo’s great.”

Music’s screaming in my ears to keep me from hearing my own voice. The headphones are at top volume and my vocals aren’t in the mix at all. It’s a strange effect. Like a hurricane sucking words out of your mouth.

Gil’s glasses are reflecting the glass of the control room window; he’s staring at me with empty Little Orphan Annie eyes, framed by the curly brown hair that’s looking more unkempt by the day. I want to do this right for Ivo, for Gil, for Gary, for Betty, for my bandmates, but, honestly, I don’t know how—I’m just going through the motions. What I’m doing isn’t art or science or inspiration or craft or anything , really, except self-parody. I’m simply fulfilling a commitment. I probably shouldn’t have taken that bath.

“I know going through the motions when I hear it, Kris,” Gil says kindly into my headphones.

“Yeah, me too.”

In Roxbury, I used to kill. Just shake apart every time I put down vocals — shake apart willingly — the rats running around me. Not enough rats here. Not that I care. Hey, maybe that’s it: I don’t care anymore. Should I care about not caring?

“Is there anything else I can get you to make you more comfortable?” Gil asks with his spooky Little Orphan Annie stare.

“Rats.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Not enough rats here,” I answer.

“Not enough what ?”

“Rats. They used to crawl around my feet.”

Gil pauses to think, but it doesn’t work. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“This studio is too nice; it makes yucky people like us feel out of our element.” There, I said it.

“Right. Do you want me to fuck it up a little?”

“Would you? That’d be so nice. Just fuck up the place, Gil.”

“After this take, dear,” he says. “Rolling.” As the song begins, I hear him say, “This is the one, Kris.”

Of course it isn’t the one, ’cause it’s never the one. Afterwards, Gil actually leaves the control room to come and talk to me. I’m in trouble again. He stands in front of me with an empty Coke can and smushes it in his fist, drops it on the floor. “Better?” he asks.

I laugh. “Better.”

“Right. I’m going back up to the control room and you’re gonna blow the roof off this filthy place.”

“Okay.” When I see his Little Orphan Annie face back at the desk, I thank him. “I know fucking up the place isn’t in your job description.”

“You write my job description,” he answers. “I’ll do whatever you tell me to.”

“Right back at ya, sister.”

“Okay, then,” he says. “Blow the roof off this filthy place.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gil rolls tape. “This is the one, Kris.”

I don’t blow the roof off. Tattoos don’t glow. No heat, no electricity, no roller coaster, no beautiful coughed-up livers. I feel fine.

And guilty. What’re the odds a witch’d be driving by right now? I could run out into the street…

“Do I have to take you for another walk?” Gil scolds gently, sounding tired. “How did you used to get the songs’ voice to kick in?”

“It just did whenever I picked up my guitar,” I say quietly. It’s sorta hard to root for Gil when he’s rooting for evil.

“AH-HA!” he screams into my brain. Quickly, I grab my headphones and rip them off.

“Ow.” I wince at him through the glass and he motions for me to put the phones back on.

“Sorry, Kris, I forgot how loud your cans were,” he whispers. “I’m bringing you your guitar and you’re gonna play it while you do this vocal, got it?”

“Isn’t it gonna bleed onto the track?”

He laughs. “Not if I can get you screaming again.” He’s excited again. That’s nice. It won’t last long, but it’s still nice.

Gil appears in the room, holding my guitar. I take off the headphones and reach for it, but I’m moving too slowly for him; he’s really excited about this new idea. Deftly, he places the strap over my shoulder and swings the guitar away from my big belly. He even moves my hair out of the way and shoves the headphones back on my head. Then he races to the control room, saying something I can’t hear to the assistant engineer, motioning and gesturing. Gil can’t wait to try this new experiment. Poor Gil. It’ll be a relief when he finally gives up.

Maybe I should start planning my life. All art therapy aside, education is important. I can’t be fucking around, not with the baby coming. I wonder if McGill University would still let me in. After the baby’s born, we could both go be Canadian.

“One minute, Kris,” Gil whispers in my head. He’s still pointing and talking in the control room; the assistant engineer’s listening and nodding. They’re probably tearing apart my goddamn lyrics again. Glad I can’t hear it.

I’ll fulfill this commitment, then move to Montreal. I could teach the baby French instead of English. That’d be funny. None of my friends would understand it when it talked.

Gil hits the talkback, whispering, “You ready?”

I stick a thumb up at him. What are we trying now? I look down. Oh yeah, my guitar.

“Rolling!” he whispers as the track begins.

Bass and drums start this song. I listen and then begin playing along with the guitar that’s already there ’cause Gil is watching so intently. I feel silly.

“ This is the one, Kris ,” whispers Gil. And I smile up at him, thinking, No, it’s not.

I sing on cue. Can’t hear it, of course, but I feel it in my rib cage, not my throat. Weird. Like the baby, it’s in my middle, alive and swelling and needing to come out.

Then the roller coaster races by and grabs me by the hair. Heat builds, my skin fizzes with electricity, colors appear, blotting out the studio around me, “now” becomes memories, vital sounds fill my chest—all this in an instant. The last thing I think is, this is one beautiful coughed-up liver.

long painting

When the song ends, I look down at my guitar, impressed. Quickly, before its spell fades, I try to understand. Evil Kristin makes me care, I think, about everyone and everything.

Or maybe she’s just what it sounds like when you care so much that you flip the fuck out.

I hear nothing from Gil in my headphones. Then I look up at the control room window and see him jumping around, waving his fists in the air and dancing in silence. Gil dances in as I’m taking off the headphones and guitar. “You done it, Kris, you done it!” he cheers and pulls me into the control room to listen back.

My bandmates are sitting on the floor, smiling. Were they there the whole time? Gil laughs delightedly. As the song plays back, I put my hands on my stomach. The baby isn’t moving.

white trash moon

I’m lying in bed, listening to a tape, and the baby’s dancing, thank god. Little fists and feet going a mile a minute. Babies just don’t dance to Throwing Muses, I guess—nobody does. I remind myself that babies sleep a lot in utero, that all mothers freak out when their bellies are still, that evil isn’t necessarily evil…