Every band eventually develops a preferred explanation for why a performance feels unstable, and in the Hurt, the explanation was always Angelo. The chief accuser was the guitarist, Kevin. He could make an E chord sound like an unresolved legal dispute. His relationship with tuning resembled an ongoing diplomatic crisis. After rehearsal he would point toward Angelo, “You’re speeding up again.”
Angelo stared back in disbelief. He practised daily with a metronome. He recorded rehearsals. He had evidence. Meanwhile Kevin tuned by intuition, and occasionally astrology. One night after a particularly chaotic performance (of course it was Red Deer), Kevin stormed into the green room. “The last song got way too fast,” he announced. Angelo said nothing. Instead he pulled out a recording from his phone. They listened. The tempo remained remarkably steady from beginning to end. What changed was Kevin’s guitar. By the second chorus the instrument had drifted so far from concert pitch it sounded like trying to join another band in another province.
“Hear that?” Kevin said triumphantly. “Everything’s rushing.” Angelo closed his eyes.
“That’s your guitar going out of tune.” Kevin frowned.
“No. That’s momentum.”
Similar conversations continued for years. The more out of tune Kevin became, the more convinced he grew that rhythm was the problem. One reviewer described the band as “creating an adventurous relationship between pitch and certainty.” Another praised their “elastic approach to musical agreement.” Angelo kept time faithfully through the whole schmear.
Then one afternoon Paul, a producer, arrived to record the group. Within fifteen minutes Paul stopped the session and asked, “Why is the guitarist tuning to himself?” The room became very quiet. The drummer felt a sensation usually associated with religious vindication. For the first time an outsider identified the actual problem. Kevin looked wounded. Then defensive. Then thoughtful. To everyone’s astonishment, he spent the next month working seriously on tuning. The band immediately sounded better. Rehearsals became calmer. Songs felt more solid. One evening after practice Kevin approached Angelo, clearing his throat awkwardly.
“You know,” he said, “maybe you weren’t speeding up.” Angelo nodded. “Maybe.” Kevin looked at the floor. “I think when I’m out of tune, everything feels wrong, so I start looking for causes.” Angelo laughed.
“That’s not a music problem. That’s a human problem.” Years later they still played together. Kevin tuned more carefully. Angelo still got blamed occasionally because every band needs an official Department of Unexplained Phenomena. But if someone complained about tempo, both men understood that tempo crimes can also be committed by pitch wearing a fake moustache.