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The Californian Tapestry

“They’re the best we’ve done in years,” Anthony said. “And that’s the problem.”

“Barely,” John whispered, and no one laughed. greatest hits red hot chili peppers

“A greatest hits record,” Flea said, voice muffled by the cushion. “It’s what you make when you’re old. Or dead.”

Anthony Kiedis stared at the tracklist on the studio wall, a strip of gaffer tape with twenty names scrawled in four different colors of marker. Flea sat upside down on a couch, his legs hooked over the back, blood rushing to his bald head. John Frusciante tuned his ’62 Stratocaster for the seventh time that hour. Chad Smith drummed paradiddles on his own knees, impatient. The Californian Tapestry “They’re the best we’ve done

Flea unfolded himself. “Then let’s write something we haven’t written before.”

Flea put an arm around him. “We’ll be lucky to be alive at fifty.” “It’s what you make when you’re old

When they finished recording, the engineer played back the two songs side by side. Flea started crying. He didn’t know why. John stared at the floor.