It was sort of romantic to be slumbering amongst all the gear in a beautiful old studio that had once housed the likes of Elvis, Buddy Holly and Dolly Parton, but it sucked waking up in the dark. Here’s a few pictures of my HOTTT PAD:

the stairs up to my hottt pad.

My bed.
I was obsessed with Paul Auster at the time. I think that book is “The New York Trilogy”.

These guys kept me company at night. The lion was a hand-puppet gift from my friend David, who I had just met in Hawaii, and the sheep, strangely, CAME with the mattress. Seriously. The store was giving everyone a sheep.

View from bed.

The adjoining kitchen and bathroom where I would make tea and do no yoga.

The awesomely weird lights in the main studio space.

For your multi-media pleasure, I suggest you check out one of Ben’s new videos (he just put out a record TOO, and it’s awesome). He shot it in the studio and you will be able to recognize my bedroom area. It’s where the naked dude with the tambourine is standing:

I wound up using this song, coincidentally, to open up my solo tour in august, Bob Dylan-style:

This is the control room. Right now it’s filled with empty people.

Lyric print-outs.

A weird view of the smaller vocal room, seen through my vitamins.

The whiteboard. Ben was ORGANIZED. He made LISTS.

It was Ben and Joe who dubbed me AFP. Apparently, they heard a woman refer to me as “Amanda Fucking Palmer” and it just stuck. It sounds great with a slightly southern drawl.