Dirk and Reed's attempt to make a record, surely a Crowning Moment of Stylistic Suck. Notable for Mark Wahlberg skilfully averting Hollywood Tone-Deaf by sounding like an average-to-bad singer who thinks he's a great one, but also for their general ineptitude. The look of barely-maintained patience on engineer Michael Penn's face is priceless:
Dirk: Maybe try...speeding it up a couple of octaves. 'Cause people like slow songs when they're, y'know...a little faster.
A few scenes afterwards when, having not paid the recording fees, the producer elects to not give them the tapes. Since Dirk and Reed are otherwise completely broke unless they can get the tapes and sell them to the record company, this presents a problem for them. They attempt to cajole / threaten the producer into handing the tapes over, but their lack of intelligence or intimidation turns out to be a hindrance and, like the engineer, the producer just listens to them with an expression somewhere between barely concealed impatience, utter disdain, and complete resignation at how stupid these people he's forced to deal with are.
Dirk: Look, man, all we need is the tapes, all right? Record Producer: No, you don't get the tapes until you've paid. Dirk: In our situation, that doesn't make any fucking sense. Reed Rothchild: Look, we can not pay for the tapes, unless we take the tapes to the record company, and get paid. Dirk: Hello? Exactly. Record Producer: That's not an MP, that's a YP, your problem. Come up with the money, or forget it. Reed Rothchild: Okay, now you're talking above my head. I don't know all of this industry jargon, YP, MP. All I know is that I can't get a record contract, we cannot get a record contract unless we take those tapes to the record company. And granted, the tapes themselves are a uh um oh, you own them, all right, but the magic that is on those tapes. That fucking heart and soul that we put onto those tapes, that is ours and you don't own that. Now I need to take that magic and get it over the record company. And they're waiting for us, we were supposed to be there a half hour ago. We look like assholes, man. Dirk: Let me explain to him in simple arithmetic. One, two three! Because you don't fuckin' get it, Burt! You give us the tapes. We get the record contract. We come back and give you your fuckin' money. Have you heard the tapes? Have you even heard them? We're guaranteed a record deal. Our stuff is that good! Record Producer: Now I get it. Now I understand. You want it to happen... but it's not going to happen. Because it's a Catch-22. Dirk: What the fuck does that mean? What is a Catch-22, Burt? Record Producer: Catch-22, gentleman. Think about it. [pause] Dirk: You know what I'm thinking about, man? I'm thinking about kicking some fuckin' ass!
Alfred Molina's whole performance, but the line "That's Cosmo. (Whispered, with his hand covering half his face) He's Chinese." As if that explains ANYTHING about a teenager wandering around in his underwear and setting off firecrackers!