I've not a drummer by any reasonable measurement: I've never studied rhythm instruments, and I have a hard time not banging snare and tom and kick all in one big unified thump when I do sit down at a kit. But I've always liked percussion, and so I'm a little sad that I don't have it in my recordings more often.
I decided to bang on my guitar for this song, to improvise a sort of percussion collage of body thumps and clicks, and when I finished recording a couple of tracks of that, my wife walked into the kitchen and started handing me things. Brilliant. Eventually, we had recorded something like twenty different tracks, featuring everything from metal mixing bowls to ringing glassware, wooden-spoon-and-cookie-tray washboarding to the rumble and crack of a kicked and struck oven. There's also some zill on there, and a slidewhistle, and and and.
Paranoia in pop-culture is the meat of the song, if song is even the write word for this. I know next to nothing about paranoid schizophrenia, but I know an awful lot about Crazy Schizo People thanks to television and movies and bad fiction, and this song is more an attempt to grab at the reliable caricature of the raving tinfoil strawman than any sort of real characterization of paranoid disorders. The trope that has always stuck with me, and which from what little I know may not be all that off the mark, is the idea of an obsession that is both gripping and yet carefully managed into a degree of vagueness and unprovability that makes it impossible to really either confirm or deny—all these things, that's how they get you: but always the pronouns, never the antecedents.