Chapter 17
W HEN R ENé WALKS IN AND SEES ME NEAR THE CASSETTE DECK, his face lights up like a kid who’s discovered a new toy. “You’re going to play the song?”
There’s a brief moment of doubt. How bad could it be to hear my father’s voice for the first time in six years? What are the chances I’ll burst into tears?
“Let me hear the song,” René demands in a low, playful voice that catches me off guard.
I gather myself. “I forgot it in my room.” I let my chest drop, feigning disappointment. “I’ll bring it another time.”
Even through the dark sunglasses, I can tell René narrows his eyes at me for a second, like he’s trying to figure me out.
He sets his guitar down and turns his attention to Santiago. “You ready?”
“Yeah, this is what I was telling you about for the baseline.” Santiago turns up the volume and a deep drumbeat comes on that ticks and tocks like a piano’s metronome.
“It’s laid back, I like it,” René says, strumming his guitar.
James begins filming and I tiptoe past them to the far corner of the room. I squat amid the film gear and pick up the wireless monitor so I can watch James’s shots.
With a few adjustments, Santiago has turned the groovy solitary drum into more drums that come in at different beats. He then uses the keyboard to create the beginnings of a melody. They jam for a little while and I find myself captivated watching the entire process along in the monitor. My heart perks up. This is what the making of the album should look like.
“Let’s muffle it up,” René says.
Santiago taps a few things out on his computer and plays it all back, including a new electronic steel drum. He programs a low snare to come in every once in a while, and both he and René get visibly hyped. Doesn’t seem like much to get so excited about but I’m relieved we’re finally recording something. Who knows, maybe this intermittent drum will be a very recognizable part of René “El Rico” Rodriguez’s first single as a solo artist?
“Evasive, right?” Santiago makes adjustments and the sound of the beat changes slightly. There’s an old-time record static noise added and the beats get deeper.
With a sense of urgency, René steps inside the vocal booth, his guitar in tow. I stand slowly and tilt my head a few times at James to nudge him into the booth with René. He opens the recording booth’s door and steps inside. On my monitor, the camera tilts from a close-up of René’s hands skillfully playing the guitar, up to his face as he starts to hum.
“How’s that?” René asks Santiago through the booth’s microphone and speaker system.
Santiago nods approvingly and drags things around on the large computer screen. So far, this is nothing like the studio sessions I’ve been to. For one, other than René’s guitar, the music is being generated entirely with a computer.
Santiago taps the space bar, sits back, and hits play. They’ve created a new version of reggaeton’s distinctive pattern: boom chicki boom chic, boom chicki boom chic . More sounds join in as the song intensifies, like a party hyping up.
I look at the time and scribble away in my notepad to keep track of what we’re capturing.
11:07 am
Santiago gets up and waves his arms around
René stands, and moves his body slowly to the beat
11:12 am
Camila arrives and starts to dance
Camila steps into the booth
Camila and René dance together
I peel my eyes from the monitor to watch the real thing through the glass door of the recording booth. Camila twirls her hips, lips pouting. She turns around and backs up against René, thrusting her butt to the rhythm.
She’s wearing a cropped tank top and tight jeans that hang low on her waist. She rolls her body to the sensual, steady beat and René follows along. They’re so in sync, it seems rehearsed. As though it’s a song they’ve danced to before, and not one René and Santiago just made up.
I wonder if there is something other than friendship going on between them. René notices me watching them, and feeling caught, I return to taking notes.
11:15 am
René tells Santiago to stop the track
Camila steps out of booth, sits on couch
I write quickly, then look at the monitor with curiosity.
“Play it again.” René’s tone is curt. Santiago does as he’s told, and the music fills the room again. “When you hear this rhythm, what does it make you want to do?” He’s looking straight at the camera lens. I lean into the monitor, trying to figure out what he’s up to. He grins, sits back on the tall stool, and folds his arms, as though waiting for a response.
11:16 am
René interacts with the camera as though talking to future viewers of this behind-the-scenes
“Dani.” René’s voice resonates through the speaker system. My eyes widen. “What does this music make you want to do?” he asks, still looking at the camera.
I creep up until I’m standing. James holds the shot on René, and simultaneously looks over his shoulder in my direction. Now that I’m in plain view, René fixes his gaze on me. The beats play on and everyone in the room is watching for my response.
I flip through potential responses he could be digging for. Smile. Buy the album. Share it with a friend. “Dance?”
“I would hope so.”
And I hope he hasn’t noticed the flicker of irritation on my face. Relieved I’ve answered correctly, I slink back down into the seat.
“So, why aren’t you dancing?” René asks, causing a thick, defensive knot to form in my stomach.
“I’m… I’m working.” I manage to mask my exasperation.
“But you see”—René leans his head against the glass, pretending to be exhausted—“that’s the thing. If the song doesn’t make you move, then I’m not doing my job.”
There’s an unmistakable flash of annoyance on my face. I do not appreciate being put on the spot like this, but I don’t want to say the wrong thing and get us kicked out of the studio.
“No perreo for you?” he presses.
“God, no,” I utter without thinking.
René unfolds his arms and tucks his hands into his pockets. His shoulders slump, as he gets more comfortable in his stance. “Why not?”
“Uh, well.” I measure my words. “I haven’t quite mastered my perreo just yet.”
“Really? That’s concerning,” he says, somewhat seductively. “What part of the dance do you need help with?”
The beat drags on. “Oh, you know.” It’s a struggle to keep my face from revealing my irritation. How could he already know where my buttons are? “I guess, mainly, the um, doggy-style part of it,” I manage with a smile.
“And why is that?” His lips pucker.
“I, you know, the backing up on your dance partner. It doesn’t look quite right when I do it.”
“Maybe you’re trying too hard.” He flashes a mischievous smile.
“Maybe it’s not for everyone,” I snap, my face stiff. I’m trying so hard to remain calm, but I feel I’m speeding on an oily street and could skid out of control at any moment.
“I know what your problem is.”
“Do you?” I say through gritted teeth.
“You need to let go. Loosen up.” He shakes his shoulders around to show me.
What is it you’re supposed to do, turn into a skid? Against it? Just let go of the steering wheel? I open my mouth to respond but I’m saved by a burly guy bringing in a tray of frothy espressos in see-through glasses. He sets the tray down on the coffee table and starts stomping his legs to the music, head bobbing along without a care in the world.