Notes on the 2000 CD re-release of Checkmate:
Hi, I’m Cody Weathers, songwriter, singer, and drummer for ROQUE. Most of the supplementary liner notes in this 2000 CD re-release series were written by outsiders --fans, record producers, music critics, pro wrestlers. Let’s face it --at this point in time, the members of the band (myself included) are just too shitfaced to write a bunch of touchy-feely Beatles-retrospective world-wide-web gushy wet-dream copy about why this particular album is part of the legend. Or how there even is a legend. But it turns out I won’t get my royalties if I don’t do it for one of them, so it might as well be this one. Whatever. The band broke up. You didn’t know that, did you. You’re probably actually buying this “hiatus” crap. No. The band broke up. Speranza punched me in the face and then later paid some homeless junkie to punch me again. The band is finished. I’m working on UFO Catcher, now, and I don’t feel like looking back. It’s the end of 2000, and the band is over, man. And this album was probably the beginning of the end.
Band historians --of whom there are a pathetically large number for a band that is routinely either ignored or ejected for suckness-- will tell you that this album was an incredible turning point in our evolution. Speranza joined the band, and we did all these shows with three damn guitarists. Yeah, that’s true, we did the whole three- guitar rock thing while everyone else was wimping out and pooping their little diapers about it. But I don’t know, we started having all this conflict. Major pain in the ass. And I was to blame for some of it, sure. I mean, people go on and on about how Roque and Roll and Separate Ways are like these great, down-to-earth lo-fi albums, but they totally suck. I mean, we can’t play, we’re recording with a boom box --not even a good boom box!-- our instruments are not even garage-sale quality, the song selection is questionable and the production quality is flatly unacceptable. I just wanted to have an album that wasn’t an embarassment, so I went up to the brass and said, “Hey man, this Joh3n O’Meara guy doesn’t even know the craft of producing! He, like, listens to The Cure and shit! No, man, I don’t care, I’m sick of it --I will not work with him again! I don’t care what you do: send him to Germany or something to learn how to f-ing produce a record album! Bring me someone else or I walk! I mean, for Pete’s sake, I’m the talent! I shouldn’t have to put up with these pre- revolutionary conditions!”
Boy, did I screw myself with that little rant.
See, I thought we’d get a fresh start --record in a studio, work with a real producer. Instead, they sent O’Meara to Germany (where, quite frankly, he belongs) and gave us their version of an überprodusser, Cat Mayhugh. He comes in on the first day of pre-production in his little black turtleneck and smoking jacket and he says, “I hear we have some attitude in this band. Well, I won’t stand for it. Let me tell you the album Cat Mayhugh puts his name on. It’s real life, baby. It’s you five --wait, what are there? six of you?-- without any fancypants jock-enhancing undergarments, singing about this American life. I’m thinking steelworkers. I’m thinking Springsteen’s Nebraska. Five or six guys and their rock and roll. I want this to sound like a high school garage band being recorded by the neighbors for police evidence. I’ve got a boom box here. Set up your instruments now. I feel momentous.” Shit, man, what’s a rock star gotta do?!