So, recording goes on, and

So, recording goes on, and it goes on quite well. Damn, this record will be hot. Why do we say that? If you have to ask, you have clearly arrived at this website accidentally, for you know absolutely nothing of we are scientists.
Some of you may remember the last update (see below), in which we mentioned that Michael went into the studio and did many things with great precision (among them: playing the drums) and that Chris had laid down his bass parts as well. Well, last night, bass tracks were redone. Some of you may be wondering why so fine and infallible a bass player as Chris would ever need to have more than one pass at recording his bass lines, and the answer is: he wouldn’t need more than one, you simpering idiot! The problem was not with Chris, but with the machinery, proving once again that WAS is still two steps ahead of all human technology. We decided to try mic-ing the bass a little differently, and the result was so fine that we concluded that all bass tracks should be re-recorded to include this tremendous new bass sound. Sure, this means that the album may come out as many as two days later than we’d previously anticipated, but believe us: when you hear this ridiculously smooth bass tone, you will agree that those 48 WAS-less hours that you spent moaning and wailing and annoying the family will have been well worth it.
After banging out several stellar tracks in quick succession, Chris was so excited about the great leaps in bass engineering that he promptly declared that, upon the completion of these fine bass parts, the album was now complete, and would feature only bass and drums. He was very adamant about this, and when Keith pointed out that such an arrangement would render his role in the band essentially obsolete, Chris commenced to shrieking, “Do you hear that bass tone? I mean do you HEAR that bass tone? I’ll not have your misguided guitar wanking and half-baked vocals marring this recording, which, as it stands, is clearly this century’s finest sonic achievement.” Michael could not disagree, and so, with a vote of 2 to 1, Keith was unceremoniously ousted from the band.
Later, as Keith sat weeping on the curb, it occurred to him that both Michael and Chris will be away over the Thanksgiving weekend, giving him plenty of time to steal into the studio and surreptitiously add those most necessary guitars and vocals. Let us all pray that he is not too late . . .

Drum recording wrapped up last

Drum recording wrapped up last night, ladies; drum recording wrapped up last night, gentlemen. In just under four hours, the WAS team knocked off some nine songs in quick succession, Michael laying down flawless track after flawless track. So puzzlingly proficient was Michael last night that the rest of us found ourselves making quips along the following lines:

A news update on wearescientists.com

A news update on wearescientists.com is for many of you the one remaining reason to go on. It’s a fact. Let’s stop playing house. Now that your gruesome dependency has been brought out into the open for all to see, perhaps the healing can begin. On the other hand, if we continue to whip out the kind of hyper-entertaining, ridiculously informative crap that has long characterized this notable corner of the world wide web, well then I guess you don’t really stand much of a chance of overcoming the addiction.
A little throat clearing and we shall commence. Bleh-he-hem. And so we had a show last Saturday at a little club in Brooklyn called L’Amour, a bunghole catering to hair metal and others who haven’t yet discovered linear thought. We broke all kinds of prestigious records by not selling a single ticket. Fear not, that was our intention; how could we subject you, the delicate fan-base, to the aesthetic bludgeoning of a club like L’Amour? As showtime approached, the club manager, possibly experiencing a fit of suicidal dementia, made what must have been the most difficult decision of his young life: to fuck with WAS. Fortunately for all concerned, we were in the most receptive and forgiving of moods, and so when he told us “you got fifteen fuckin’ minutes”, we silently applauded his bravura and cache whilst bowing and slowly backing into a nearby shadow. We began our fifteen minute assault with The Method, which reduced the crowd from around fifteen to two. According to our sources, one young metal-loving fan, seated on a couch, sneered “this is soft” twenty seconds into our powerhouse opener, grabbed his girl’s hand, and strode out into the night, his testicles aflame with the wrath of artistic conviction. Having unburdened ourselves of the crowd’s closed-minded elements, we proceeded to rock the clothing off the two youngsters who had the horse-sense to know as soon as Chris had yowled the first few bars that they were in the presence of rare genius, uncommon greatness. Call it vanity: it gives us quite a bit of pleasure to forever change the lives and expectations of the young.

What Happened When We Replaced the Word 'God' With the Word 'Dogs' in Joan Osborne's Smash Hit One of Us

If dogs had names, what would they be?
And would you call them to their faces
if you were faced with them in all their glory?
What would you ask if you had just one question?
And yeah, yeah, dogs are great.
Yeah, yeah, dogs are good.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
What if dogs were some of us?
Just some slobs like some of us?
Just some strangers on a bus trying to make their way home?
If dogs had faces, what would they look like?
And would you want to see
if seeing meant that you would have to believe
in things like heaven and in Jesus and the saints
and all the prophets?
And yeah, yeah, dogs are great.
Yeah, yeah, dogs are good.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
What if dogs were some of us?
Just some slobs like some of us?
Just some strangers on a bus trying to make their way home?
Just trying to make their way home, back up to heaven all alone.
Nobody calling on the phone,
‘cept for the Pope maybe in Rome.
And yeah, yeah, dogs are great.
Yeah, yeah, dogs are good.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
What if dogs were some of us?
Just some slobs like some of us?
Just some strangers on a bus trying to make their way home,
just trying to make their way home, just like some holy rolling stones?
Back up to heaven all alone, just trying to make their way home.
Nobody calling on the phone,
‘cept for the Pope maybe in Rome.

Welcome once again to this,

Welcome once again to this, the most potent News update on the web. There is, as the olde timey newsguys used to say, “News A’plenty, homes.” First topic: WAS’s upcoming show at L’Amour, slated to occur on ten November. This will of course be an explosive, butt-rockin’ show. Appearing on the same bill as us are two of our favorite bands: Mudrust and Ripped from the Cross. We’ve never heard their music, but, as no less than Beethoven put it, “It is false to believe that none can outshine melody, nor eclipse song, cracka’.” Did you know that Beethoven’s close friends and loved ones and children called him “Beat-down”?
To give you some idea of what kind of club L’Amour is, I offer the following factoids that I just moments ago gleaned via a visit to the website:
– Some bands that are playing there in upcoming weeks are (in reverse order of how much I fear them) Candria, Kataklysm, Type O Negative, Clutch Overkill, and Killbox.
– The web page features little animations of exploding balls of flame.
– L’Amour proclaims itself “the rock capital of Brooklyn”, and its website is lamourrocks.com, which suggests not only that it may in fact *be* the rock capital of Brooklyn, but also that the club may actually be called L’Amour Rocks, which would certainly be a nice touch.
– L’Amour is hiring. Folks with experience in bartending, ticket sales, booking, chicken-throat cutting, and covert ops are encouraged to apply.
– Competing in the third round of the semi-finals of the L’Amour Band Search 2001 will be Evil Adam, Gravesend, and Pipebomb. We highly recommend this show. Each of these bands gives a highly nuanced, *super* subtle performance, especially Pipebomb.
But there is far, far more to life than WAS performances; some of you I know struggle to see that, but it’s true. We can’t think of any examples right now, but they are out there, lingering in the dark fringes of our world.
Now, in terms of recording our CD, the official start-date has become Nov. 10. Seem kind of dubious, the way we keep pushing back that date? When do you start recording your CD, again? Sucka. The fact is, people, these things take time, and it’s all a very inexact process. Each time a CD gets made, it’s a small miracle. The audio sciences are still very mysterious, still very poorly understood. Heck, we barely understand them. I mean we do, we understand them fine, but that was like a figure of speech, ya know? Ahem.
You may have noticed that WAS songs quite often deal with the subject of love. If you know us personally, this may surprise you, because we are all incredibly cynical about love and in fact have vowed never again to drink from its cruel teat, all of our experiences in this area having started out delightfully then ended up but horribly. So this is kind of yet another case of a band just pumping out exactly what the fans need to hear. For we recognize that you are too weak to be weighed down by the truth, and so we protect you from it. Like a giant shield positioned in outer orbit to guard against rogue asteroids and their brethren the Global Killers (TM), WAS takes the truth square in the jaw so you don’t have to. We take it and then we go sit down with our broken jaws and we pump out a song that assures you, the innocents, that true love is just sitting right there across the laboratory in a labcoat with the same corporate seal as your own stitched onto the breast, that she is looking for you with as much timid vehemence as you are looking for her, and that when you do find her behind all the colored smoke and laser flashes, she’ll be ready for you, and you for her, all bets will be off, all jewelry mere decoration.
We keep you ignorant of timing, is what it boils down to. And for that you should thank us by coming to a show.