Chad watched me every time I walked, which I tried to limit. He and Giovanni glared at each other during the first take of “Nothing Else Like It.” It sounded awful, and the second time was even worse. Afterward, I came out of my nook in the studio. “Stop fucking up so much!” Giovanni yelled at Chad, standing up as soon as we had stopped playing. Chad growled, “I’m not the one fucking up. You’re off today!” “I ain’t the problem.” Giovanni came out from behind the drum set and around the four-foot sound buffering wall. “You can’t keep your fucking eyes off of her, can you?” Chad looked up to the ceiling. “We’re still on that? Just get over it already! I’m fucking sorry!” “Get over it? Are you kidding? You don’t just get over something like that!” I put my guitar down and stood between them. They were still at least 10 feet apart, but I was sure that would change quickly.
