Mum’s quartet had a twelve-night stay in Japan booked, and Lin assured both parents she’d be perfectly capable at home with no adults around. She was actually looking forward to some peaceful evenings after assisting in the studio, doing what was necessary to release the engineer from dealing with the day-to-day trivia. Some of the younger lads had huge egos and unreasonable expectations of the minutiae of a recording session.
Her day ran a lot smoother when the old-timers were booked in, although she occasionally came across what Mindy would have called “wandering hands.” She quickly identified the potential perpetrators and steered clear. But she had no defence when Zac, the lead singer of Rogue, took a fancy to her, chatting her up at every opportunity.
The band had the studio booked solid for a fortnight while they laid down tracks for their fourth album. After the runaway success of the second, the third, recorded while she was at school, had been a comparative flop. The manager was delighted to see her, calling her a “lucky charm” and a “muse,” insisting she remained close by.
A hardship this was not as she watched and learnt. The actual mechanics of capturing different sounds baffled her, but she restricted her thirst for knowledge until the end of the sessions, knowing how hard the sound engineer had to concentrate as he constantly tweaked knobs to keep the graphic equalisers within an acceptable level of distortion.
Then the unthinkable happened during a session as Ken was called away because his wife had gone into labour with their first child. His assistant, Mick, didn’t have the same level of expertise, but no-one seemed too bothered as Rogue rehearsed a brand new song which took them places they’d not been before.
Many of the new tracks veered away from their previous Glam-Rock stylings, but this ballad was more melodic than anything they’d done, heavily influenced by Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven. But it led to a problem with the drum sound. Although using brushes dampened the snare, no effect Mick applied took the edge off the bass drum. The hard-hitting sound cut through, even when they had it well down in the mix. They tried several different things, adding a muffler to the microphone, altering its position, and even taking it away completely.
The drummer’s patience wore thin at the number of digs at his inability to “hit it softer.” Finally the band’s manager called a break and they all left except Don, who scrabbled on his knees, trying to adjust the distance from the pedal to the drum skin.
Lin grabbed a couple of cushions from the sofa in the recording booth and took them through to the studio. “I couldn’t find a pillow, but these may help.”
Don jumped at the sound of her voice, knocking his head on the snare which tipped into the high-hat, making it wobble, but she caught it.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Granite’s drummer used a pillow when the sound needed to be gentler, on a ballad, or in a tiny venue. I don’t know if these will work as well, but it’s worth a try.”
Waving away her apology, Don watched as she curled the cushion up to fit it through the post-hole in the front drum-skin, and arranged it in the centre.
He played a couple of beats, then asked her to move it so it was touching the resonant head.
“What’s that?”
“The drum-skin at the front.”
She did as he asked. “Presumably because it resonates.”
“Yep.” He stamped on the pedal with various rhythms. “See how much difference it makes?”
“Yeah, do you want me to try it against the other side?”
“Do it.”
He got her to try a few more things before settling on one he was happy with, which involved both cushions.
“If they’re still not happy, I could get a proper pillow from the main house.”
“Nah, they’ll be cool after a break. We all get a bit wound up during these sessions, trying to get it perfect.”
“Some more than others. Please don’t let on it was me who suggested this.”
“Why not? Credit where credit’s due.”
“I don’t want anyone thinking less of Mick. He’s good at his job, but lacking in experience. It’ll all be back to normal when Ken returns.”
“Don’t sweat it. We know this is the best studio around, and you’re just the icing on the cake.”
Lin blushed, suspecting he was simply having her on. She’d seen the kind of groupies Rogue attracted, and Don could have had his pick of any of them.
Mick walked in, his face suggesting he wasn’t happy about returning to the problem. “Do you have a different beater? Or maybe we could tie a mic windshield around it.”
“Don’t need to. Listen.” Don demonstrated, and Mick was thrilled when the rest of the band came in, clapping him on the back for finding a solution.
The next hour saw them making real progress with everything coming together as though charmed. The manager put it all down to her being a lucky mascot, not realising the part she’d played.
Later on, after eating alone, Lin settled on the sofa with a glass of coke, David Bowie’s Aladdin Sane on the stereo and one of her dad’s Modesty Blaise paperbacks. This one had a collection of short stories featuring the female James Bond character and her cockney sidekick, Willie Garvin, Lin’s all-time favourite fictional character. As the best track, Drive-In Saturday, came on, the doorbell rang. Figuring it was probably Corinne checking to make sure she’d spotted the salad in the fridge, she answered it, standing back as Don asked if he might come in.
She hesitated and he peered past her. “You must be ready to eat. I promise I won’t take much of your time.”
“Actually, I’ve not long finished.” She closed the book around her bookmark. Despite Peter O’Donnell’s considerable writing talents, she’d struggled to engage with the first short story as her over-tired brain couldn’t cope with the wealth of detail. Even after such a full-on day, she wasn’t relishing the idea of another long, lonely evening of nothing but her own company. Opening the door fully, she gestured for him to enter.
He stood in the hallway, gazing at the double staircases flanking the balcony linking them. “Blimey. It’s like one of those stately homes me ma used to drag us around when we were kids.”
Was this his purpose? To snoop at the sort of posh house he could only dream of living in? Actually, that wasn’t fair – if the next two albums sold as well as the second, he’d be close to affording somewhere grand. And although she might expect such behaviour from others in the band, he seemed much more grounded.
Folding her arms, she watched him flounder at the evidence of such wealth. Because she’d never acted like the stuck-up snobs at the convent, he had no reason to think she had such a luxurious lifestyle. Studying his plain white tee-shirt, black leather jacket and flared blue-jeans, she thought he looked much more comfortable than in the sparkly gear the manager insisted they wore so he could take publicity shots of them during today’s recording. She figured he didn’t enjoy the outrageous sequined outfits and knee-high platform boots.
He blinked, and she glanced away, realising she’d been staring at him while he studied the house.
“I’m … er … I just wanted to say thanks for helping me out earlier. I’ve never had to think about being too loud as we always did belters. I’m chuffed because it’ll give us more scope for ballads.”
“You’re welcome.” She led him through to the lounge where he removed his jacket, draping it over the sofa.
They sat, his gaze taking in the framed gold disk hanging above the fireplace. “It must be pretty awesome hanging around with Granite. They were my favourite band when I was at school. I probably wouldn’t have taken up music if it wasn’t for them.”
Making a non-committal sound, she tried to decide if he was merely angling for an autograph – or maybe a free ticket to one of their gigs.
He shifted his weight, his eyes darting around.
Surely he didn’t want a backstage pass? Silly question. Of course he did, but she badly wanted to believe it wasn’t his prime motivation.
“Um … Zac’s good at the softer stuff.” He was fishing.
“You think? His voice is too gravelly.”
“But all the girls go wild for it.”
She tutted. “You’d think he smoked at least twenty Woodbines a day.” The very idea of the pungent cigarettes made her shudder.
“He doesn’t; he’s quite precious about his instrument.”
Twitching her lips, she wondered how come her mind was so much smuttier than his.
He frowned for an instant before catching on and blushing all the way to the roots of his hair. “You know what I meant. You like him, don’t you?”
She shrugged. “He’s okay, I suppose. A bit too full of himself for my taste.”
“He really likes you.”
Scoffing, she folded her arms. “He’d chat up anything in a skirt. Bless him, he needs a constant reminder of how sexy he is. His massive ego needs a lot of stroking.”
“Really?” Don’s eyes widened for a split second before clouding over. “I bet you think the same about all the guys who come here to record. They must fall over themselves to chat you up.”
“Strangely, no.” Her tone mocked herself. “Unless they think I can get them a backstage pass to a Granite gig.”
“You can do that?” His inner fan leapt to the fore, undermining his attempts to play it cool. “’Course you can. Your boyfriend must be chuffed – assuming he’s a fan.”
“He’s not.”
His face dropped at the implied confirmation of her relationship status. “He probably prefers the classical stuff your ma’s into.”
“Nope.” Keeping her face straight took everything.
“Don’t tell me he’s into jazz or some other old-folks’ shit. Sorry, I mean stuff.”
Figuring she’d probably made him squirm enough, she spoke quietly. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Or middle-of-the-road … you don’t? How come?” A beat. “Sorry. That was rude. But I’m glad. I mean, not for you …” He broke off, squirming.
“Why did you come here, Don? To make me uncomfortable about being single? Or was it to get a ticket for the next Granite gig? Or better still a backstage pass?”
His face scrunched up and he stood. “Sorry. I’ve proper cocked this up. I should go.”
She rose, blocking his exit. “Not until you tell me why you came.”
His eyes darted around the room and he took a step back, trying to put some distance between them. “I … um … wondered if you could help me again. After being so kind earlier …” He broke off at her relentless glare, but found the courage to continue. “You see, I don’t know anyone else I would trust not to laugh.”
For some reason, her filthy mind returned to Jack’s little pinky and she bit back the urge to grin. Then she realised the seriousness of her situation, alone in the house with a much older guy.
Common sense prevailed – Don was a nice guy and if he had evil on his mind like the boy in Helen Reddy’s Angie Baby, he wouldn’t be afraid of people laughing. She narrowed her eyes. “Laugh at what?”
No comments:
Post a Comment