14. In the Studio
14
IN THE STUDIO
MAL
“Okay okay okay. Let’s hear that warm-up. That warm-up. Let’s hear it.”
Ian, Archer, and I stared into the control booth, still not used to what we’d gotten ourselves into.
“You’d think a hot producer named Laser would be a little more . . .” I said.
“Urban?” Ian asked.
“Trendy?” That was Archer.
We were looking at Woody Allen’s younger brother. He was thin and pale, had a mop of lifeless curls, and the verbal tic of repeating everything three times. Who was this guy?
Of course, we forgot our microphones were live.
“I was born Lazar Mirkin to some emigrated Russian Jews. Russian Jews. Emigrated Russian Jews. Does that satisfy, satisfy your curiosity—satisfy you?”
“Sorry, man. Cool name.” Archer waved into the control room.
Awkward. Our first time in a big, fancy recording studio with all the bells and whistles, and we were insulting our hotshot—and highly neurotic—producer. Where the hell was Phil? Wasn’t he supposed to be here to handle all this?
Ian was still thinking about the name. “It’s not laser like the light weapon,” he said. “No, it’s like Lazar Wolf.” He turned and saw our questions. “From Fiddler on the Roof .”
“Shit. Yeah. He was the butcher.” Archer sang the song. I knew the soundtrack to the play, but I’d never thought about that name before. But wow—Lazar Wolf. That might’ve been the coolest name in the world.
“Can we get back to—can we—young men, can we get back to this warm-up, warm-up, warm-up song?” He had a very definite focus.
No drums. I waited for Ian, who picked up his guitar and played the opening arpeggio of “Perfidia,” the song we’d been using as a warm-up since we were in high school. It had the intense harmonies of a mariachi band. Ian said it had been recorded by all kinds of people, but no one ever knew it but him.
As it was supposed to do, the song allowed us click into each other, to feel the connections that lifted us above guitar, bass, and drums and made us into a band.
The microphone clicked on. “Phil is right, the man is right, I think he’s right. First song on the album, it’s in, it goes on the album.”
Archer and I looked at Ian. He was our musical historian and rarely spoke unless the subject was music. “It’s not very rock ’n’ roll, man.”
In the booth, we saw the mop of hair shake briskly. “It will be, I’ll make it so, don’t worry, yes it will. What else, play the rest, let me hear the rest, go now.”
“That was four repeats, not three,” Archer said thoughtlessly.
Our agent, Phil, arrived, full of his own bluster and a lot of expensive experience. He barged into the studio and almost stepped on Charlotte, who was sleeping on Archer’s foot. She stumbled to her feet nearly under Phil; for a moment, he looked like he was riding our Great Dane, but he recovered.
“Here we are! You’re right on time—that’s a great start! And you’ve met Laser. Hi, Laser. Thanks for doing this!”
In the control booth, Laser had ducked down almost below sight. One pale hand rose into the window so he could wave.
“Huh. He’s shy. Never will talk to me. Anyway, how you boys doing? Everything good? Like the studio? Mal, you’ve got your own booth for drums, and I had them put down this nice Oriental rug. Looks good, doesn’t it? Are there snacks? I ordered snacks.”
“ ‘Perfidia,’ ” came a mournful cry from the control booth. “It’s good.”
Laser was apparently so unnerved by Phil that he was unable to say things three times.
Phil slapped his hands together. “I knew it! Excellent! You guys are in such good hands. Do what he tells you and you’ll be on top of the charts in a month! What’s the plan now?”
“Um,” Archer said, trying to get the right answer. “Do what Laser says?”
“No,” Phil said. “I mean right now. What are you doing? He’ll want to hear your entire set list live. Are you up to that?”
The control-booth mic clicked on. “Up to that!” Laser called as if life was hopeless.
“Right! Good! Start at the beginning and go straight through. Let him decide. We’ll pick what you’re going to play on Milt McAllister . Did I come through for you boys, or did I? Outstanding! So we’ll pick the song, and then if you have any new songs for the album, let us hear them after. I’m going to stick around for a few days because I just love you guys. You’re my favorite clients. No lie! I’ll go sit with Laser.”
In the control booth, Laser visibly wilted.
“Uh,” I said, “how about you sit on this sofa here?” Laser perked up again. “Be nice to have you here while we play.”
“Oh? Oh yeah, I see. Better with an audience, eh? All right. Well, this is nice—oof. God, this is a big dog. Does she have to drool on my trousers?” Charlotte, knowing a good thing when she saw it, had gotten on the sofa with Phil and was using his lap as her pillow.
Laser actually broke into a tremulous smile.
I thought to remind Phil. “Don’t forget, we’re doing that thing at the high school Friday afternoon. Laser’s going to mix that day, so we’re clear to leave the studio.”
“I’ll mix on Friday. Mixing. Mixing makes it. I’ll make it.”
“Right. And on the seventh, I’m out for a sailing race.”
“A sailing race? Mal, what have you gotten into?” Phil looked alarmed.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s one day. I’ll always be in range of the Coast Guard. Kidding—don’t worry about it. You look pale. Take it easy.”
“This studio time is very expensive!”
“Laser said there would be days when he’d work with one or more of us. He can finesse Wednesday.”
“Finesse Wednesdays,” Laser crooned. He seemed to be nearly upright again in his control booth. “On Wednesdays. No drummer on Wednesday.”
Phil pushed Charlotte off his lap and rose to his feet to look at Laser, who ducked down again and waved that one desperate hand. “Oh, for god’s sake. Well, if Laser’s sure.” Phil turned to me. “Do. Not. Drown. That’s my order to you.”
I nodded very seriously. “Good rule. I’ll take it to heart. Guys, ready?”
Ian and Archer masked their grins and nodded.
“Okay,” I said. “What do you say? Let’s start with ‘Lizabella.’ ”
Two hours and some thirty songs later, Phil was asleep with Charlotte, and Laser had forgotten he was nervous. “Good,” he said. “That’s good. Good, there are at least eleven—yes, eleven, maybe twelve—but surely eleven. Before we choose, anything new? Anyone have a new song? Are there new songs the world doesn’t know, hasn’t heard, will be new? New?”
Ian grinned, and I pointed at him. Ian shook his head. “Not until Nicky’s heard it first.”
Archer caught the same hitch in Ian’s attitude that I’d heard. “Brother Ianacus,” he said, “do you have something to tell us?”
Ian ducked his head, but he no longer had the fall of long hair to hide behind. I saw his cheek pull up in a smile. He looked up. “Yeah, maybe. Maybe I should be asking you guys for your blessing.”
Oh, hallelujah! I loved Nicky like a particularly adorable sister. She was smart and funny and didn’t let Ian get away with anything. He needed her and was better for her presence in his life. It wasn’t too much to say that she’d saved his musical career—and also ours.
I ran through a crescendo on the drums and then got up to hug Ian once Archer let him go. I thumped Ian’s back to prove my delight. “You’ve asked her?”
“Not yet,” he said. “I need the song first, and I’m still working on it. But it’s okay with you guys?”
I swatted him. “Okay? It’s better than okay. We’re thrilled, right, Arch?”
“Fuckin’ A, man, that’s great news! You marry Nicky into Aftermath, and we all benefit. Shit, hurry up and do it so I can congratulate her! Man . . . you guys married. Damn. That’s wild.”
“I can’t sleep without her,” he said, and I knew he meant it literally as well as figuratively. “I need her with me. She makes me . . . better. Hopeful. I want to take care of her forever.”
Yeah, man. Forever. Same commitment—different relationship—as I’d made to my mom.
And what about Prentice? Could I see myself committing to her that way?
The idea gave me a little tingle, somewhere between my stomach and my ’nads. A good tingle, I decided.
“Maybe you next?” Ian asked Archer, who laughed.
But who did not deny the possibility.
“I’ll tell you guys,” he said. “I’m so damned infatuated with O’Connor that I think I’d better wait before making any plans, you know? Surely this won’t last. I mean, I’ll wake up soon and go back to being a man whore, don’t you think?”
I laughed, but Ian patted his oldest friend on the back. “I thought it would fade. It doesn’t. If it’s right, it doesn’t.”
Ian looked so happy that I was kind of touched. It was girly, but I was touched.
Archer matched Ian’s hand, putting his arm around Ian and then around me. “We’ll help you with the song,” Archer offered, “when you’re ready.”
“And then,” Laser all but shouted, “we can put it in the album!”
His voice started us out of our huddle. That was right; we weren’t alone.
“If we ever get to that. Get to that. The album. Mazel tov. Anyone have a song they can share, will share, care to share?”
I thought about it. “Yeah. I’ve got a few, but only one’s ready. Hang on.”
I’d transcribed it, of course, so the guys could play along. I sent them the link so they could follow on their tablets. “It’s called ‘I Was Watching.’ ”
I sat at my drums and adjusted the microphone. I led off, and Ian and Archer filled in as best they could, which was pretty good for never having heard the song before. They made me proud.
I sang my rage. The first verse about Johnston, the second about my father, the break about me, and the final verse about my mother.
A small figure crouched against a brick wall
Hit by fear, anger, the lure of power’s call
Hidden from the eyes of authority,
You thought no one saw
But I was watching
That much power creates an illusion
Of being above want, need, or confusion
Nothing could stop you
No one dared try
But I was watching
They weren’t my actions, but they made me who I am
You shaped me into this challenger and I am ready to jam
When you need a warrior, you can call your own,
You no longer have to go it alone
I was always here
I will always be near
And I am watching
There was silence when I stopped, and then Phil, who’d woken up, spoke.
“Man, that is dark as fuck.”
“No doubt.” Ian nodded.
“Powerful.” That was Archer’s assessment. “It’s powerful. Fantastic, Mal!”
We looked at Laser, who clicked on his mic. “You have it transcribed, you have it there, you wrote it out? Send it to me, I need to see it, get it in here.”
We fumbled through links and contacts, and then we watched him as he studied the music. Then he rolled his finger in the air as if that meant anything to us.
“What?” I asked.
“Again!” he shouted. Only once. Was it a good or bad sign that Laser was not repeating himself?
We played it again, and then a third time, each one getting tighter and more satisfying as we fell into the groove.
There was no response from Laser for the longest time, and then he stood in the control window, apparently forgetting his fear of the world.
“Mal,” he said thoughtfully, without the slightest touch of anxiety. “If you change this to a major key and slowed it down, it would be a seductive love song.”
I could tell he was serious because he didn’t repeat anything. “What now?”
He nodded and said no more. It was Ian who spoke. “Let’s try it.”
A love song? My scream of rage was turning into a love song? I studied the song as if I hadn’t seen it before.
Laser saw something. Instead of being from a predator stalking an enemy, it could be from a protector, watching not to launch a violent attack but waiting to step forward and defend.
We switched to a major key and ran through it slowly. It was interesting.
Laser rolled his finger in the window again, and we knew what that meant this time. We played it again. And again.
And then once more.
Then Ian and Archer turned to me, awaiting my verdict.
Shit. It worked.
Should I cover up my rage to get at the better song? Should I let go of the fury that had inspired the song?
Should I accept that I didn’t need a song to channel and control my anger?
“A love song it is,” I said, to cheers from the control booth.
“Summer’s big hit,” Phil predicted happily.
Hm. We’d see.