December 8, 2017:
Downstairs Diva dimes her Marshall stack, wails "I Touch Myself" at 3am through her PA with windows open while sobbing. Later she'll call the police on me at 10am for playing my stereo before she's awake.
She thinks she's brilliant 'cos her dominating older sis says she is. She has an interesting voice but she can't sing, repeating the same narrow vocabulary of irritating mannerisms like nails on chalkboard, particularly her pompous little half-yodel at the end of every other line. If she were disciplined she might become what she believes herself to be. But she's an artist you see, and artists don't do discipline.
She requests direct to two-track, believing that her superior live performance skills will translate to excitement on the recording. It's a mistake on every level, beginning with the mistake that she doesn't know what "direct to two-track" means. On playback she asks to adjust the balance, but, that's not how it works.
Downstairs Diva is a horrible human being. Racist, entitled, addicted, malignant. Any actual talent in her world came from those around her, so that when they leave she's alone with her failure and her heroin. We know where that goes.