CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 11
Ian slept well and rose with the dawn. He took his coffee out on the apartment’s stubby balcony, which overlooked the town and the mist-wrapped horizon. Amelia had written him several times about this wonder. How the shoreline and much of the town was blanketed by a marine layer, sometimes for hours, and occasionally all day. Yet from his perch, Ian could see how the main street emerged from the haze as it rose gently from the Pacific. The first structure to be seen clearly was Castaways. Ian wondered if this was why the sea captain had built it where it stood, just beyond the drifting tendrils. Up where he sat, the sky was a pristine, cloudless blue, the daylight and colors both gradually taking on strength.
He stared at the old building and recalled his stint on the Castaways stage. He had wound up playing both sets, melding easily with the others. Connor’s band members were all experienced studio musicians, well accustomed to accepting changes on the fly. Ian finished his mug, reentered the kitchen, and filled it a second time, then returned to the dawn. The fire he had always taken for granted was still gone. And yet, for the first time in months, the taste of ashes was absent as well. Strange as it was to admit, Ian looked forward to another series of studio takes.
What was more, he had an idea how the session might take shape.
Ian decided to call Arthur and treat it as a sort of test. Involve himself in the work to come. See if this mildly pleasant sensation remained intact.
Arthur greeted him with a typically bitter “I suppose you’re ringing to ruin my day. Something to the effect you’re going to be late. Or not show up at all.”
“I hope I’m not calling too early.”
“What, you think perhaps if I’d finished my morning constitutional, I’d be more open to your version of bad news?”
“You mentioned bringing in studio musicians, adding some depth to portions of my first session.”
Arthur snorted. “Having second thoughts, are we? Looking to make fresh misery for me and Danny both? Seeing as how we’re already working the segments into the film’s final cut.”
“Is there any chance you could bring the musicians in today?”
“What exactly are you saying?”
“I have an idea about the next scenes.”
“And?”
“Could we hold off discussing this further until I’m in the studio?”
“Am I going to bitterly regret saying yes?”
“Hard to say.” Ian was grinning as he added, “One more thing.”
“Yes? What further misery have you concocted to ruin this perfectly good morning?”
“Your neighbor, Connor Larkin.”
“I’ve already heard about your invading his rare appearance onstage.” Arthur grumbled, then allowed, “Wasn’t altogether a bad night, by all accounts.”
“Could you phone him, ask if maybe he’d be willing to join us?”
There was a moment’s silence, followed by a faint gurgling sound.
Ian asked, “Are you laughing?”
“Certainly not. You’ve got some bloody nerve, I’ll give you that much.”
“Is that a yes? Hello?”
But the old man had already hung up.
* * *
Connor Larkin was already there when Ian arrived. The actor was sprawled on the front room’s leather sofa, cradling a mug of coffee. “Vanessa, Larry, and Leo are on their way,” he said in greeting. “They all live in San Lu. Be another half hour or so.”
Arthur demanded, “You asked your band to trek north on the basis of a few words from this one?”
“Nobody required convincing,” Connor replied. “I mentioned Ian’s name, and they were already moving.”
“Terrible idiots, the lot,” Arthur said.
“I’ll tell them you said so,” Connor replied. To Ian, “What’s up?”
“The song Danny has slated next, ‘Every Breath You Take.’”
“Sting and his former band. I forget their name . . .”
“The Police,” Arthur said.
“Great song,” Connor said. “What about it?”
Ian addressed Arthur and his deepening frown. “The next major scene is after the breakup, correct?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“You told me.”
“Did I, now?” Arthur picked up his flow-chart, flipped pages, fiddled with his spectacles. “So?”
To Connor, Ian said, “What if we did a slow bluesy-jazz rendition? Say, four takes with different levels of backup. One with just you singing and piano. Another just your voice and my guitar.”
Arthur was aghast. “Tell me you’re not suggesting we dump the selections made by an Academy Award-winning music director.”
“Not dumping,” Ian said. “Reworking. A new version.”
“After the original was approved by the producer. Already edited into the film.”
Connor ignored the editor. “Third take, full team, add a sax solo.”
“Slow and plaintive,” Ian said, liking how they were already in sync. “Maybe bring in some backup singers if it works.”
“Danny will scream bloody murder,” Arthur said. “Rightly so. Especially when he’s faced with extra costs on a project that’s already gone over budget.”
Ian offered, “I’ll give up my share.”
Connor started to object, but Arthur was faster. “No, you bloody won’t. What’s more, you won’t mention any such blasphemy in Danny’s presence. Are we clear on that, mate?” When Ian did not respond, the old man rose to his feet and pointed to the sound room. “Now shift yourselves over and let’s see if we can give him a useful addition to this project.”
Connor remained where he was. “You think the film has potential?”
“I think it’s going to blow the roof off the summer releases. But what do I know? I’m just an old field hand with almost fifty years in the trade.” Arthur made a vague sweeping gesture. “In you go, now. More work, less chatter. That’s my motto.”
* * *
But their first take did not go as planned.
Arthur was busy setting up mikes and sliding in transparent sound baffles for the drum set so they could all play together. Ian and Connor were playing quick segments, talking more than making music, when the song came together. It happened so fast they ran through the first attempt while Arthur shifted back to the controls and set the gains. Then they all had to stop, because Connor’s drummer and bass and sax players had arrived and had to be miked and brought up to speed. They all lent a hand prepping the studio, impatient to begin work on a song that already seemed half done, at least to Ian.
With the drums positioned behind Arthur’s movable glass partitions, the sound was both clear and baffled. This allowed the drummer to play in the same room with them, rather than them having to add his work later. Arthur fiddled with the mikes’ gains and issued a steady stream of complaints over the studio speakers. Connor finally lost patience and ordered the producer to start taping. Arthur responded with more of the same, but Connor walked to the connecting door, leaned in close to the old man, and spoke one word. Enough.
With that first stanza, the drummer set a low heartbeat of a rhythm, using just the tom-tom and bass drum. The stand-up bass player amped the beat, hammering the string with the knuckle of her right thumb, then softly plucking the next three notes. Then hammering again.
In the second stanza, Ian entered in, a soft refrain of minor notes. Three and sometimes four strings together. Timed to match the drummer.
Oh, can’t you see, you belong to me?When Connor began the second refrain, the sax entered. The sax player blew just a few quiet reedy notes, little more than a rasping confirmation of Connor’s sorrow. Ian thought the sax sounded like a strong man trying hard not to weep.
Three takes and the song was done.
When they filed back into the control room, Arthur asked Connor, “Could you hang about a bit longer? Danny wants to have a word.”
Connor busied himself making a fresh pot of coffee. “He’s heard our rendition?”
“I fed the second take through the film set’s sound system. Danny’s dropped everything and is on his way up.”
Ian asked, “It’s good?”
“Good?” Arthur swung around to his board. “Have a listen to this.”
“No,” Ian said. “Please. Not until we’re completely finished.”
Connor asked, “A superstition?”
“Something like that.” In the silence that followed, Ian found himself wanting to offer the truth. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this good about my work. Felt anything at all, really. I’d like to hold on to that for a little while longer.”
Arthur’s response surprised him. The old man stared through the glass wall at the empty recording studio and mused, “The bloke who taught me the ropes was Andy Johns.”
“I know that name,” Connor said.
“And well you should, lad. He recorded the likes of the Stones, Free, Eric Clapton, Jethro Tull. When he was in his cups, Andy liked to talk about the band that gave him his big break. Led Zeppelin.”
Ian found himself able to step away from the strain of partly confessing his secret. He was mesmerized by the sight of this irascible old man putting aside his grumpy mask. Revealing his own quiet passion for the craft.
Connor asked, “What did your friend say it was like?”
“Pretty much what we’ve had here,” Arthur replied, still searching the empty recording studio and the skeleton shadows of mikes and drum set and piano. “Most groups, they show up with a fistful of ideas and half-finished songs. They spend days messing about, trying to find what they’re after.”
Ian had heard of such nightmare scenarios. Big-name groups booking entire orchestras for backup, then forcing them to wait for hours, sometimes days, sometimes even weeks.
Connor asked, “Zeppelin was different?”
“They came in, set up, completed one take, sometimes two, and the song was done and dusted. Mind you, Jimmy Page brought together four blokes who’d spent years working as backup studio musicians. They all knew to watch the ticking clock.”
Leo, the drummer, spoke for the first time. “Go in, set up, shut up, get it done, and leave. That’s how a studio musician survives.”
“There you go,” Arthur said, still watching the empty room. “I suppose I only half believed studio takes could ever run the way Andy always claimed they did with Zeppelin. Until now.”
Ian was so moved by the moment’s quiet intensity, he confessed, “I lost it. The passion. The fire. It’s gone out.”
Connor asked quietly, “When did it happen?”
“Started about fourteen months ago,” Ian replied. “Last month, I finally admitted defeat. I told my manager I was totally burned out and needed to take a year off. But the truth was, I wanted to try and rekindle the passion that had taken me this far.”
Connor guessed, “Your manager didn’t take it well.”
“He screamed at me. For days. When that didn’t work, he stole all he could, including advances on three projects I didn’t even know he’d committed me to handling. Then he fled the country.”
The actor’s response surprised him. Connor leaned back so far, his head collided with the wall. He directed his words to the ceiling. “You mind some advice?”
“I guess. Sure.”
“This comes from the eye of the hurricane. You understand what I’m saying?” When Ian remained silent, Connor asked, “Those three surprise commitments . . . Who is heading the project left in the absolute worst position?”
That required no thought whatsoever. “Kiki Kerkorian, head of the Miami Music Festival.”
“What’s their start-date?”
“Little less than a week.”
“You one of the event’s headliners?”
“I was. Again, without my knowledge or okay.”
Arthur huffed softly.
Connor asked, “When did you find out?”
“Six days ago. After their lawyers froze my accounts.”
“So you haven’t actually spoken with the lady?” When Ian shook his head, Connor went on, “Call her directly. Pretend the lawyers and their actions don’t exist. Lay the whole thing out.”
“She’s heard it all by now,” Ian pointed out. “Seeing as how I’m the latest bad boy on all the entertainment channels.”
“The lady hasn’t heard it from you, which is the only thing that matters. Tell her you’ll do the gig.”
Ian opened his mouth to protest. But the words didn’t come.
“Do the gig,” Connor repeated. “Tell her you’ll do it for free. No charge.”
“Connor, I’m broke.”
“Hear me out. Make sure she understands what this is costing you, both financially and personally. In exchange, all you’re asking is that she spread the word about what happened. Have her tell the music world your side of the story.” He rose and crossed to the coffee maker. “I’m pretty sure she’ll pay you what you’re owed. But her coming out publicly on your side will mean more in the long run. To have a senior figure serving as your new ally, this could save your career. Keep the doors open for when you’re ready to return.”
Ian wanted to protest, say he didn’t know if he’d ever resume his career. But as he was still mentally shaping the words, a chime sounded from the wall console.
Arthur walked over and pressed the button to open his front gates. “Danny’s made it here in record time.”
But it was not the film producer who approached the studio. Instead, three very large and cheerful women stopped outside the door. When Arthur merely sat there and stared at them through the window, the closest woman tapped on the glass with a purple fingernail as long as a talon.
Arthur opened the door, asked, “May I help you?”
“Danny Byrd said you needed some backup singers.”
“Did he? How astonishing.” Arthur stepped away. “Then I suppose you’d best come in.”
Each member of the trio easily outweighed Ian by a good fifty pounds. Everything about them was huge—face, hair, limbs, smile. One Latina, one Black, the eldest an Asian beauty, with the broadest grin of all. She pointed to Connor on the sofa and said, “Look what we have here, ladies.”
“Lunch,” the Black woman said.
The Latina was the largest of all. “Honey, you know who that is?”
“Of course I know.” She addressed both Connor and Ian. “If you two sing as good as you look, we’re in trouble.”
Ian pointed to Connor. “He sings. I watch.”
“Great heavens above,” the Asian woman said. “You’re Ian Hart.”
“Who’s that, now?”
“Don’t you ever watch anything but those silly game shows? This here is the baddest of the bad boys.” To Ian, she added, “Sugar, you’re way better looking than those awful pictures they’re showing.”
Connor asked Arthur, “Danny didn’t say anything about this?”
“He mentioned wanting to add some personal input to today’s session. I said since he was the boss with the checkbook, he could do pretty much whatever he liked,” Arthur replied, studying the women now compressing the air in his control room. “I’ve been known to make the occasional mistake.”
The Latina demanded, “Who’re you calling a mistake?”
The Asian lady said, “You don’t watch, old man, I’m gonna tie a knot in that ratty sweater, with you still inside.”
Connor pointed to the cottage door. “Here comes Danny. Right on time.”
And it wasn’t just Danny.
The producer arrived with three others in tow, a videographer and two lighting gaffers. The four of them were all loaded down with cameras, tripods, lights, cables.
As Danny followed his crew into the recording studio, Arthur told Connor, “I suppose it would be too much trouble to inform the guy whose house he just invaded.”
The Latina asked Connor, “Does the old man always register so high on the crankometer?”
Danny set down the camera, slipped the cables off his shoulder, and returned to the front room. “My aching back.”
“You didn’t mention bringing the circus act,” Arthur said.
“Apparently so,” the Latina said.
Danny greeted the ladies, said, “Why don’t you go get miked up while I have a word.” When the women went next door, Danny addressed the three men and Connor’s band, “You don’t need me to tell you the song is first rate.”
Connor told Ian, “Something tells me there’s a big ask hidden in that compliment.”
“You’re not as dumb as you look,” Arthur grumbled.
Danny went on. “We can run through a couple more takes of what you’ve already done. Work up a nice little video we can use as a feeder for the film’s release. Everybody goes home happy.”
Connor asked, “And the alternative is . . . ?”
“The story ends with them coming back together,” Danny said. “Sort of. The final scenes are a romantic cliffhanger. A lot of heat and possibilities and uncertainty. Myron and I went back and forth over the last melody.”
Connor asked, “And Myron is . . . ?”
“Myron Riles,” Danny replied. “Multiple Oscars, Emmys, the works. We never found exactly what we were after. So we went with what sounded, well, okay.”
Arthur demanded, “Why am I only hearing this now?”
“Do you want polite or the truth?”
“Polite will do just fine, thank you very much.”
“We didn’t want to trouble you with issues unrelated to the final cut.”
Arthur gave that a moment. “That will do, I suppose.”
Danny asked, “Would you be open to recording a second song?”
Connor asked, “And that is . . . ?”
“It hit me listening to your take,” Danny replied. “I think a new rendition of ‘Fever’ might just knock our film’s ending into next week.”
Arthur said, “Oh, well, now.”
All eyes turned to him.
Danny asked, “You like?”
“I actually have chills.” Arthur seemed to gather himself. “Of course, I might just be coming down with a fever of my own.”
* * *
Danny Byrd played director. It was a relatively new role for him, and his nerves were evident. Ian did not mind. Nor, apparently, did any of the others. Even Arthur set aside his irascible nature and calmly followed Danny’s cues.
Written by Eddie Cooley and Otis Blackwell, “Fever” was originally recorded by R B artist Little Willie John in 1956. Since then, the song had been covered, or restructured and sung, by over a hundred recording artists, including such standouts as Peggy Lee, Ray Charles, Natalie Cole, Michael Bublé, and Beyoncé.
For the intro, Danny positioned the videographer behind Arthur’s shoulder. They shot the film’s editor making his final adjustments to the mixing board, then using the arthritic fingers of his right hand to count in the band.
When you put your arms around me, I get a fever that’s so hard to bear.The lighting was as sultry as the song. Two brilliant spots were positioned on Connor’s face and the keyboard. Another spot on the heart of Ian’s guitar. One on the snare drum, touched by the feather strokes of the wire brushes. One on the bass player’s right hand. One on the sax—the instrument, not the man.
The three ladies Danny had lined up behind the piano, almost beyond the spots’ reach. They swayed in unison, one large amorphous mass, joined together by the song’s gentle heat.
Connor almost moaned the words You give me fever.
In response, the ladies shouted a one-word chorus.
Fever.
The second time, their cry was matched by the sax and Ian and the bassist and the drummer. All of them adding their own thumping emphasis to the word.
Fever.
Second stanza, the trio clicked fingers and came as close as they could without moving to a full-body strut.
Fever.
The beat rose to a grinding force. Connor’s voice was now a controlled shout of pure, unadulterated lust. You bring me . . .
Fever.
Ian then played the solo that had originally been played by a trumpet. As he started, the spot on his instrument broadened to where his entire body became illuminated. Midway through, the sax entered, and they began alternating the lead, racing each other through faster and faster riffs, until the ladies halted them with the passion and the harmony of that one incredible word.
Fever.
The next stanza had Pocahontas saving her lover from her father’s wrath. But now the trio sang it, each one taking a line, almost bellowing it with the sheer joy of saving the man. Connor added his soft backup, then joined with them to plead in intense harmony for her lover’s life.
Fever.
The room stopped. Took a silent breath lasting three impossibly long beats. Then Connor came back in alone for the final verse.
The final chorus was their first time singing in tandem. A magnificent harmony.
Ian was genuinely sorry when it ended.
Two more takes and Danny declared, “I have all I need. Arthur?”
“I suppose it wasn’t overly off-key.”
Danny grinned at Connor. “You heard the old man. That’s a wrap.”