by Garth Stein
“Evan, can you come in here a minute?” a thin, disembodied voice asks. It’s Mica, or at least a metallic facsimile of her voice that comes out of a black speaker mounted over the control room window.
Evan points at himself.“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
He glances at the other guys, who grin at him with various degrees of letch. He goes inside.
The control room is warm and dark, like a cocoon. Its chairs are plush, it feels safe. Mica sits at a twenty-foot-long mixing panel full of dials, knobs, and levers that would make a 747 pilot feel right at home. She manipulates the controls; Evan waits patiently for her. She looks like she knows what she’s doing, flipping switch after switch with ease and dexterity.
“That’s your son?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s your wife?”
“I don’t have a wife.”
“Okay.”Mica nods.“Where’s your son’s mother?”
“She died recently. Automobile accident.”
“Oh, my God, ” Mica says, swiveling her chair around to face Evan. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, ” Evan says.“Me, too.”
“So it’s just you two.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you seem to be getting along okay.”
“We are. We’re getting along very well, thanks.”
They look at each other a moment, both sort of nodding their heads, taking in the gravity of what is in the past, tucking it securely away and gearing up for the future.
“Listen, I’m not a producer, ” she says turning back to the control panel.
“I know.”
“Don’t expect me to produce your demo. I’m not a savior.”
“I know.”
“A lot of people think I’m some magician. They think if they can get me to mix their tracks, they’ll have a hit. That’s not it. I listen to what’s going on, that’s all. I listen to the music and I listen to the producer and I put it together. A lot of what I mix becomes top-forty stuff because I work with really talented people. I just want you to know that.”
“Okay.”
“If you guys don’t have a producer, one of you had better speak up when we listen to playback.”
“Okay.”
She stops working and turns around.
“Whose band is it, anyway?” she asks.
Evan cocks his head, momentarily confused. “It’s ours—”
“Who’s the leader? Just so I know. It’s not Tony and it’s not Lars.”
She looks up at him, waiting for an answer.
“Rod, ” he says.
“The bass?”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting look.”
Evan follows Mica’s eyes out to the studio where Rod is setting up his bass. It’s true, Rod has an interesting look.
“Did he come up with it himself?” Mica asks.
“I think it came to him in a dream.”
“Ha, ” she says, and smiles at him. “You want to get something to eat after this is all over?”
“Sure.”
Now it’s getting confusing. She’s Billy’s girlfriend. Why would she? . . .
“But, my son . . .”
“I don’t mind if he comes, ” she says.“Oh, you mean it’s too late for him?”
“No, no, I— Sure. I mean, I should ask him. But I’m sure he’d love to.”
“Good. I’m asking now so you don’t have to worry that I think you’re a lousy musician or not a nice guy or anything. I kind of have a reputation for being a bitch during a session because I don’t take any crap from anybody and because I know when someone’s trying to get by without playing their best and I’ll call them on it. So if I have to yell at you or something it’s only because maybe I see you can do better. Don’t take it personally. Okay?”
“Okay, ” Evan says.
“One more thing, ” she says.
“Yeah?”
“How’d you get that scar?”
She traces an invisible line on her own slender, unblemished neck that corresponds with Evan’s scar, a thin, two-inch-long horizontal line on his throat just below his Adam’s apple. Hardly noticeable. He’s only been asked about it a handful of times in his life. It’s a difficult scar to see, but once you see it, you can’t forget it. It’s a tracheotomy scar.
He smiles at her and touches his neck so they’re both touching the same spot on themselves. She laughs when she notices what he’s done, but not nervously. She laughs easily.
“I’m sorry, is that too personal?” she asks.
“No, ” he says. “A childhood accident, that’s all.”
She smiles and traces her finger up, over her chin, to her lips, across her cheek and to her ear, where she scratches briefly before taking it away.
“I predict . . .” she says, but leaves it at that.
“You predict what?”
“Hmm?” She pretends she’s already dismissed it.
“What do you predict?”
“Oh. I predict that someday you’ll tell me about that childhood accident. What do you think?”
What does he think? He shakes his head.
“Do you think I’ll get you to talk, Evan? One day?”
“One day, ” he says, “maybe one day you will.”
“Go.”
Evan stares at her a moment longer as she turns back to her gear, rotates dials, flips switches, and stabs at the keyboard of her computer. Then he returns to the studio as if nothing has happened; he doesn’t tell anyone—not a soul—that he’s completely fallen in love with Mica Morrison.
“I’M TELLING YOU guys, ” Lars says giddily from his drum set, “Ev was hot!”
Tony nods in appreciation, plucking at his strings, tuning by harmonics.“ So now you’re sitting in with the big boys?” he jokes.
Mica comes into the studio and sets up microphones for the drums, guitars, and vocals. She moves with grace and purpose, no hesitation whatsoever. No one dares get in her way.
“It was insane!” Lars continues.“I walk in there, and Ev’s up on stage with Lucky Strike! And he’s walking around like unfrozen caveman guitar player with these guys—these . . . masters of jazz— and then they start to play, right, and Evan gets this look on his face, like suddenly it hits him: what the hell am I doing up here? And then it’s time for him to solo, and he slams that guitar, I mean he bashes it for a few bars, just until he’s got everyone’s attention, and everyone in the room is silent at that point—I mean silent—you could hear an ice cube tinkle they’re so silent. They’re wondering: who the hell is this? And then he starts . . . sculpting . . . this solo, man. He starts weaving a goddamn tapestry of music! And everyone is on the edge of their seats wondering where the hell is he going next? Like they have to know. They need to know! And this is going on for, like, ten minutes.”
“It wasn’t ten minutes, ” Evan corrects.
“How do you know?” Lars shouts. “You were so into it up there, Theo Moody looks out at the audience and makes this face like, should I stop this guy? And the audience was like, no fuck-ing way!”
“We get the picture, ” Rod grumbles.
Really? Evan doesn’t get that picture. He was just playing. He didn’t see Theo Moody ask the audience anything.
“I swear to God, man, ” Lars continues.“It was like the old days. It was like Eric Clapton when he still did drugs. It was fucked up and amazing at the same time.”
“Yeah, yeah, we get the picture, ”Rod snaps.“Let’s start playing.”
“I’m with Rod, ”Mica says, finishing her mike job.“Why don’t you guys run through your songs. I won’t roll tape. I want to play with the levels and get a feel for your sound.”
“Right on, ”Tony says. He turns to the band. “Let’s start with ‘Wheel Dance’ and then go straight into ‘Rainmaker.’”
“Hold up, ” Evan says.“Can Dean stay in here?”
“For now he can, ”Mica says.“But when we start recording, he s
hould come inside with me.”
Evan nods and reaches into his guitar bag. He pulls out a little plastic container and walks over to where Dean is sitting on an extra amp.
“Put these in.”
“What are they?” Dean asks, eagerly uncorking the little bottle. His eyes are bright and he has a perma-smile on his face.
“Ear plugs, ” Evan says.“I’ve already ruined my ears, no need for you to do the same.”
Dean looks disappointed. Evan frowns at him, and Dean, surprisingly, acquiesces without a fight. He squashes up the little foam plugs and slips them into his ears. He looks up at Evan when he’s finished.
“Did I do it right?” he asks.
“You’re a natural.”
“Let’s get it on, ”Tony says.
And off they go.
THEY PLAY THEIR two songs, and Evan is in a zone. He doesn’t care that the songs they’ve picked aren’t his. He doesn’t care that these two songs don’t showcase his talents as well as other songs do. He has no ego. He just plays. He plays truthfully and honestly. He feels the music in his heart.
He plays the notes, but he doesn’t notice them. He plays the songs, but he isn’t sure where they begin or end or how many times he’s played each. Because what he’s really playing is not notes or songs, he’s playing a cosmic ballad, a universal love song that bridges over any preemptive halts to the music, any miscues, any flubs. He’s playing what he feels, and what he feels is so strange to him. He feels he’s been given two brand new things, two new toys, and he loves playing with them. But he knows he has to give them back. Dean goes back on Sunday, Mica goes back when the session is over. And his music reflects his feelings. It’s joyous, but with an edge of melancholy, a kind of mellow hollowness that informs the music without upstaging it. The guitar solos, which had been locked in for weeks prior, take on a new depth, a new dimension. Not different, but deeper. It surprises his bandmates, and spurs them on. There’s energy to spare. Call it inspired, if you want. The band is playing inspired music, and Evan is leading the way.
What Evan doesn’t know is that behind that mirrored glass wall, in the control room, Mica is receiving all of Evan’s energy, she’s taking it in, and she likes it. She’s there by herself at first. Dean joins her when they begin recording. Then Billy drops in.
“He’s great, ”Mica says to Billy.
“He is, ” Billy confirms.“He is great.”
“Who’s great?” Dean asks from his seat behind the mixing board.
“Your pops, ” Billy answers.
“If he’s so great, why isn’t he famous?”
Billy and Mica exchange a glance.
“There’s a difference between being good and being successful, ” Billy replies. “You need more than talent to make it. It generally helps if you know somebody. And you need to get real lucky.”
Dean nods in understanding. “It’s smarter to be lucky than it’s lucky to be smart, ” he says.
Billy cocks his head at Dean, looking for clarification.
“It’s what my Mom used to say, ” Dean explains.
Billy smiles and turns back to the window of the studio. He listens as the band flies through “Wheel Dance.”
“Lars is pretty good, ” Billy says to no one.“A little white bread, but solid.”
“The singer’s voice is decent, ”Mica says after a moment.
“What’s up with the bass player? Is it Halloween already?”
“Apparently it came to him in a dream.”
Billy taps his foot to the beat and stares out at them, leaning over the console. When they finish the song, he stands up.
“Not bad, ” he mutters.
“What are you thinking?” Mica asks.
“I don’t know, ” Billy says.“Maybe I’m thinking it’s smarter to be lucky than it’s lucky to be smart.”
IT’S JUST PAST midnight and a bit cold in the control room. Dean has given up and is napping on the couch. The band is hashing over the songs, thinking and rethinking the mix. Mica rolls her eyes whenever someone suggests punching up the bass or pulling back the vocals or some other tweak. She doesn’t believe in tweaking. She’s instinctive, and she believes that if you get it right the first time, leave it be. You can only go downhill from there.
Evan’s a little frustrated. He’s tired, and tired is bad. He’s hungry. He wants to eat, sleep, and dream.
“Why don’t you guys let it sit, ”Mica suggests.“It needs to cure. Let it sit and come back if you want to play with it some more. It’s all in ProTools, it’s easy enough to pull up.”
They make faces at each other.
“I’m with her, ” Lars says.
“Me, too, ” Evan votes.
Rod and Tony shrug. They’d like to stick around, but they sense the energy is down.
“Can we get some copies for reference?”Tony asks.
“Of course.”
She picks up the phone and tells the machine room to run some dubs. Lars rousts Dean and they all file back into the studio and dismantle their equipment; Mica stows the microphones in a locker. Soon, Billy enters the room.
“You guys were sounding pretty good, ” he says. “Tight.”
“Thanks, man, ”Tony says.
“If you want to hit me with a couple of copies, I could do you guys a turn and slide them to some heads I know.”
Slide them to some heads? Give them out to record labels? Is he crazy?
“Hell, yes, ” Lars says.“Give the man some CDs.”
“The mix isn’t done yet, ” Rod says.“We just roughed it in. We have to tweak it.”
Billy laughs.“Mica doesn’t rough shit in, kid. And Mica doesn’t tweak. And Mica doesn’t stop until a job is done, so if she’s putting equipment away, that means it’s done.”
“Then there it is, ” Lars says, cheerfully.
“I could of sworn the band has a say in how their music sounds, ” Rod grumbles.
“Hey, ” Billy says, “whatever you want. It’s your sound. I’m just saying, I’m willing to put it in some hands for you. And when I put something in a guy’s hand, he gives it a listen.”
“You really think it’s good enough to go out?” Tony asks.
“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t think so.”
“Then let’s do it. We can always fuck with it later.”
“Yeah, let’s do it, ” Lars agrees.
BILLY LEAVES. TONY and Rod pack up quickly and take off. Mica’s doing something in the control room. And Evan sits on an amp and waits for Lars and his assistant, Dean, to finish loading his van.
“Are you still hungry?” Mica asks Evan, coming into the studio.
Evan nods.“You?”
“It’s late.”
“Where are we going?” Lars asks. Evan looks at him. Dean is by his side. Each of them is holding a cymbal like a strange new kind of discus.
“I’m starved, ” Dean says.
“How about Dick’s Drive-in?” Lars snickers.
“I can’t have two Dick’s in a week, ” Dean chimes in. “Let’s go get a Whopper.”
“Gemme somodat special saw-uce.”
The two juvenile delinquents burst into laughter. Lars punches Dean on the arm. Dean punches Lars back. What a team. That brain damage of Lars’s probably arrested his emotional and intellectual development at the eighth-grade level. That’s why nobody really noticed. Most people only operate on the eighth-grade level anyway. But Lars’s true colors emerge when he’s around a real eighth-grader. It’s like going home after years spent in a space station orbiting the earth.
“Seriously, though, ” Lars says, “let’s go somewhere in the U-District so I can pick up a freshman and take her home to play Spin the Bottle.”
“I know an all-night sushi joint in Chinatown, ” Mica offers.
Evan straightens up.“Sounds great. Let’s go.”
“I’m not eating any of that raw fish stuff, ” Lars warns.
“Sushi?”
“Yeah
, none of that, ” Lars says. “But I do fancy a nice chicken teriyaki, I’ll tell you that. And I like the big fried shrimp and the fried sweet potatoes.”
“Tempura?”
“Yeah. I like that.”
“Me, too, ” Dean agrees. “Big fried shrimp.”
“All right, then, ” Mica says with a smile. “Big fried shrimp all around.”
“IT DOESN’T LOOK like a restaurant, ” Evan says to Mica as they walk up to the unmarked door on King Street.
“It is. Look, they don’t speak a lot of English here.”
Lars balks.“I want to go to an English restaurant.”
“It’s okay, just let me do the talking, that’s all.”
She knocks on the door and a little hatch opens. She says a few words in Japanese, and the door opens from the inside. They enter.
Inside is a dark hallway filled with Japanese people smoking cigarettes. It’s very loud and hot. Beyond the entryway is a crowded, well-lit sushi bar. The room appears to extend farther beyond that, but Evan can’t make it out through the smoke.
A woman approaches them. She’s wearing a slinky blue dress. She bows to Mica. They speak a moment in Japanese. Then the woman opens a door and leads the four of them through an empty hallway and up a flight of stairs. They emerge in a white corridor with sliding paper doors lining both sides. The woman opens one of the doors and motions for them to enter.
“Take off your shoes, ”Mica says.
They leave their shoes at the doorway and step into a tatami room, a small private dining room with a table sunken into the floor. They sit rather awkwardly at the table.
“Anything to drink?” Mica asks.
“Beer?” Lars asks.
“Coke, ” Dean says.
“Want some sake?” Mica asks Evan.
“No, thanks. Just water.”
Mica speaks in Japanese to the hostess, who is kneeling at the doorway. The woman listens attentively, then rises and disappears.