by Nicky Wells
Unsure of what I was letting myself in for, but infected by his enthusiasm and excitement, I agreed. “Yes. Yes, I think I will. That would be fun. If you have the time, that is. I don’t want to be a burden…”
“Shush,” Dan admonished me. “You’re not a burden. You’re an inspiration. A muse. And a blank canvas. Let me teach you. Let me initiate you in the art of sound recording and you’ll have a skill for life. What do you say?”
“Okay,” I said. “All right. Yes. Fine. Brilliant.” My voice rose on every word as I was swept away by a wave of anticipation. I was hungry for a new project, new learning. Perhaps this was exactly what I needed.
Chapter Eleven
I was humming with excitement when I collected Emily from playschool. I hadn’t felt this elated for as long as I could remember, and the emotion was liberating. Some of the other mums threw me curious looks, and I knew there would be talk behind my back. The more malicious motor mouths would be speculating as to whether I had been getting it recently and whether there was a new boyfriend on the scene. I was certain of it, because I had heard them dissecting other mums. But I didn’t care. Let them talk. Let them assume. Give them something to fill their small lives. I was happy, genuinely happy.
Emily raced toward me with her customary vigor, coat and curls flying, and I found myself crouching down, scooping her up in my arms, then swinging her around in true Hollywood style. My baby girl squealed and wrapped her arms around my neck lest I should set her down unexpectedly.
“More, more,” she demanded, and I obediently swung her round again.
“Mummy happy,” Emily declared matter-of-factly when as we walked home hand-in-hand.
I choked back sudden tears. I had no idea my children were be so clued in to my emotions. My resolve strengthened. Dan was right. It was time to leave mourning behind. It was time to start over, and give myself a break. I had to allow myself to be happy and to laugh, especially if it made my children happy.
“Yes, Mummy is happy,” I confirmed. “Mummy did some fun work with Dan this morning, and it made me really happy.”
Emily giggled. “Dan makes you happy.” She drew the obvious conclusion.
I took it at face value. “Yes, sweetie, Dan makes me happy,” I agreed.
Josh, too, recognized some sort of sea-change in me when we picked him up.
“Did you have a good day at school?” I asked him as usual, expecting the customary grunted response. My four-year-old already exhibited pre-teen communication patterns. But not today. He beamed at me and gave me a hug.
“I had a good day, and did you have a good day?” he asked back. “You look happy.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. Not Josh, too!
I rallied and smiled. “I had a very good day indeed.”
“Mummy had fun with Dan,” Emily declared quite loudly, and I laughed.
“Yes, I did something fun with Dan,” I confirmed and added, for the benefit of surrounding ears, “we worked on some of his music.” The minute the words left my mouth, I cringed. I could practically hear one mum nudge the other, mouthing, is that what you call it these days?
Thankfully, my friend, Amelia, came to the rescue. She had an almighty crush on Dan, which was duly and patiently tolerated by her loving husband. “You worked with Dan today, you lucky moo?” she exclaimed. “What did you do? Was the whole band there?”
With a bouncing child at each hand and an excited Amelia in front of me, I suddenly felt like I was on a stage, and the playground tilted ever so slightly under my feet. I stood up that little bit straighter and geared up to speak more clearly. He showed me how his studio works. The sentence was clearly formed in my head; lips parted and tongue poised, my brain nonetheless supplied a response that would be less susceptible to misinterpretation.
“I’m writing a feature,” I blurted out. “The band is working on a new album, and I’m taking a look at the studio work. That’s all.”
Indeed. Come to think of it, I could always write a feature, a one-off, to turn this little white lie into a red-hot truth. Everyone here knew I used to be a journalist, and Rick would certainly run it if I asked him to. This could be my cover story. I couldn’t fathom quite why a cover would be needed; but school gate gossip could be vicious, and I had learned the hard way that sometimes it was easier to keep things simple.
“How exciting,” Amelia concurred. “Are you going back to work?”
I inclined my head thoughtfully. “In a manner of speaking, you could say that. Yes.”
“Even better, it’ll do you the world of good,” my friend encouraged me, and I smiled. It certainly would.
Later that evening, when the kids had gone to bed and the house was quiet, I sat down in front of my computer. I opened up my word processing application and stared at it for a few minutes. It had been months since I had put fingers to keyboard to write rather than shop or email, and the blank screen intimidated me a little.
Behind the scenes with Tuscq, I typed.
A master class in recording a number-one album
The cursor blinked with encouragement. I rubbed my nose and pondered. I jiggled in my chair, pressing my back against the backrest for a little massage. This was no good. Inspiration wasn’t flowing. I had too many ideas but I couldn’t find my way in.
I saved the document and began tidying my desk. Then I went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine; in vino veritas, and all that. Ready, set, go.
When Dan Hunter, lead singer extraordinaire of legendary rock band Tuscq, invited me to take a look at his studio, I could practically see the innuendo written above his head, I started writing. Yet I couldn’t have been more wrong, for Dan had music on his mind. Music, and a master class in recording it the rock star way. He played me the band’s new material and…
The dam broke, and recollection of today’s session poured out in a torrent. For a solid hour, I set down every last detail I could remember and realized I would have to take notes in the future, perhaps take a few photos. Even if the feature was never published, it would serve as a diary of an exciting and unusual experience. Maybe I could blog about it, with Dan’s permission, of course.
I read through my evening’s work again, correcting a few typos here and there, and nodded contentedly. Yes, this would work. I didn’t know what would come out of it, and I didn’t really care. The simple prospect of a project, something to do, filled me with anticipation.
Chapter Twelve
Early Tuesday morning saw me back at Dan’s house, armed with a notepad and a camera.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he greeted, only slightly wearily. The early hour was clearly not his cup of tea. “What have you brought today?”
I smiled sheepishly. “I thought I might take some notes and some photos, if that’s okay with you.”
Dan raised his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Well, I started writing down what we did here yesterday, a bit like a diary, and I noticed I had a ton of questions and couldn’t remember everything right. So if you want to show me, perhaps I can learn. You know, properly.”
Dan laughed. “That would be cool. I’d love to teach you.” He eyed me critically. “And you do look like a student. All you need is the—”
“Glasses?” I cut in, whipping my brand new pair of reading glasses out of my handbag and putting them on. I lowered my head so I could ogle him over my half-lenses.
Dan gave a belly laugh. “Now you look like a 1950’s secretary,” he chuckled. “What I was going to say was you need a pen stuck behind your ear.”
He took the biro out of my hand and slid it behind my right ear. “Like so. There, now you totally look the part.”
“Oh.” I took my glasses off again, embarrassed. The touch of his fingers sent tingles down my arm, and I was startled by my reaction to an innocuous little gesture. Dan was oblivious. He took the glasses from me and put them back on my nose.
“Don’t take them off. I like them.” He looked at me with
interest, as one might examine an exotic beetle. “When did you get these?”
“A couple of months ago, when I kept getting headaches. They’re only for close work and I don’t need them now.” I swept them off my nose and dropped them into their case and back into my handbag before Dan could interfere again.
He chuckled. “I think they’re very cute,” he reiterated but I didn’t take the bait.
“Shall we get on with it?” I suggested a little brusquely instead, snapping Dan out of his silly mood.
“Okay, yes, of course,” he agreed and led the way downstairs.
He played me the song we had worked on the previous day, and the difference was astounding. “I took your ideas and our work to the studio yesterday afternoon and had our sound man master it properly. It’s not finished,” he hastened to add. “It needs more work, but I wanted to show you exactly what mastering accomplishes.”
“It’s amazing,” I agreed, totally intrigued by the change. “So what did you have in mind? What is it we’re doing here, and how does it fit in with the overall recording of this new album?”
This thought had been bugging me all night. We were working in Dan’s home studio, and I knew the songs would be mixed and mastered in a ‘proper’ studio for eventual mass production. I had wondered how our morning session would fit in.
Dan stopped the music and sat back in his chair.
“This is a critical part of the process. I always take home a copy of our raw material to play and experiment with, and Darren does the same. Sometimes Mick or Joe might pop in, or we might all work together. We mock something up, like a demo, and then we take it into the professional studio to talk through with our sound man there. He will do the mixing and mastering on his master files and add his own magic touch, too.” He grinned at me.
“Every sound engineer has a certain touch. Our man, Richard, has golden ears, and he’s worked with us for years, as you know. When all is said and done, and the band and I are at the end of the road with our suggestions and tweaks, Richard will sprinkle stardust all over the album. That’s the art of sound engineering. That’s the bit you can’t teach, and can’t learn. You’ve either got it, or you don’t.”
He hesitated. “I think you might have it. You blew me away yesterday. And I want to find out how far we can take you. So…” He turned to the mixing console and retrieved a stack of small USB flash drives, fanning them out on the desk in front of us.
“There are all the tracks. Richard has put them onto flash drives, one each, as a project that I can put on my DAW to play with and—”
“Your what?” I interrupted.
“Sorry,” Dan said. “Please stop me if I talk jargon. DAW is short for Digital Audio Workstation, which is what we have here. My home studio.”
I picked up one of the flash drives, a little black memory stick with a USB port at the end. “This contains a song, yeah?”
“This contains a song,” Dan confirmed. “Richard made a copy of the raw material so I can work on it here, and when we’re done, we’ll put it back on the flash drive and I’ll take it into the studio.”
I nodded, and Dan continued. “I’d like us… I’d like you to work on a song each morning, maybe the same one for a few days, until you’ve figured out how you like it. Eventually, I’d love for you to come into the proper studio and watch Richard do his thing, but one step at a time. I can teach you the basics here. It’s probably best if we start with mixing before I walk you through mastering. We have plenty of raw material to work with.” He rubbed his hands, while I felt a little overwhelmed.
“Give it to me in bite-size chunks,” I pleaded. “I’m no technophobe, but I feel completely out of my depth here. It’s like learning a new language.”
“It is,” Dan concurred. “Or perhaps like learning a new instrument. And I will try to make it bite-size. Simply ask if it gets too much or if I move too fast.”
Thus we set to work. Dan picked one of the songs—project number six, a song called White Poison—and had me play association bingo. “What do you expect of a song with this title?” he prompted for my input.
“White poison,” I mused. “That sounds like drugs.” Dan gave me a thumbs up. “I’m thinking this could be a hard, gritty piece with shrill guitars and a throbbing base, like a hangover headache. Or it could be a sad ballad, a mellow piece with acoustic guitars. Depends on what happens, I guess, and whether someone’s died.”
Dan grimaced. “You have a lyrical way of putting things, but yes, you’re right. D’you know,” he cut into his own thoughts, “it’s quite interesting to get a female take on this. You have a different way of looking at things. This will be a great experience.”
He pressed play, and it turned out my initial instinct had been spot on. It was a fast piece with loud drums, heavy on the cymbals and bass, and a racing guitar line.
“What do you think of the mix?”
I waggled my head. “It’s better than yesterday’s but…”
“Yes? Go on, speak your mind. Whatever comes into your head. You have to go with your instinct here.”
I took the plunge. “I think it’s too mushy. If you’re singing about drug abuse, I want to hear a thumping heartbeat. I want the adrenaline, but it needs to start clear and become fuzzy later. You know, alter the quality of the sound through the song so that it does become oppressive and hurtful. Actually…” I paused. “Let me listen to the whole thing first to see where you’re taking it and then let me think some more.”
Dan smiled widely. “I love you,” he said sincerely. “I love your style and your honesty. This will be a great partnership.”
I blushed at the compliment but smiled back. Dan seemed to value my opinion. Never mind that I was a complete rookie. I had always dreamed of making music. But I didn’t play an instrument that would be useful in a rock band, and while I had tried singing, my talent wasn’t tremendous. Yet if I could make music great in this way, that would be a wonderful achievement. I would do skillful, creative work, musical work. I would be part of the action. I would be in the studio with the band…and I was getting way ahead of myself here. I chuckled to myself and concentrated on the task at hand. Rock on, Sophie, rock on.
Chapter Thirteen
“Spill. Who’s turned your head?” Rachel demanded over coffee two weekends later. The preceding weeks had been manic. Every weekday morning, I went to Dan’s house to help mix and master, and every night, I sat at my computer recording the day’s events on paper.
I took a photo of his mixing console and labeled all the buttons and dials on it. To begin with, most of them were a mystery to me, but Dan worked his way methodically through the console, teaching and coaching me on each fader, each slider, each button, every display. By now, I knew the level at which a voice should record optimally, and I knew what happened if you went too far on the reverb or delay.
A couple of times, we took a track completely beyond the pale. Dan said the best way of avoiding catastrophic mistakes was to try them out, one by one, in a controlled fashion. So we turned a ballad into an oompah song. Yes, trust me, it is possible!
For two whole weeks, I saw no one apart from the kids and Dan. I didn’t have time to catch up with my parents. I didn’t manage to speak to the children’s teachers, terrible mother that I was. And I didn’t once pick up the phone to speak with Rachel. I was stretched to capacity between my recording apprenticeship, motherhood, and housework.
But the previous night, I received a text from Rachel, informing me I would meet her for coffee on Saturday morning or our friendship would be terminated. Thus, this morning, I had driven the kids over to her house and dumped them on Alex, who also was left holding the baby. Now Rach and I were once again installed in our erstwhile favorite coffee hole in Tooting. Old habits and memory lane and all that.
“Spill,” Rachel insisted when I failed to respond immediately.
“No one has turned my head,” I objected. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy, m
y ass,” Rachel snorted. “You look like the cat who got the cream. Don’t get me wrong…” She stirred two sugars in her cappuccino thoughtfully. “…I totally approve. This was way overdue. Only I don’t like being left out in the cold.”
“I’m not leaving you out in the cold.” Indignation and possibly guilt gave my voice a slightly sharper edge than I had intended. I smiled and softened my expression. “I’m really, honestly, not keeping secrets from you. I’ve been so busy. Dan and I—”
“Dan,” Rachel pounced immediately, as I knew she would. “Did you say, ‘Dan and I’?”
I nodded, feeling sheepish.
“No way! Don’t tell me you’re rekindling that old flame after all this time!”
“I’m not. We’re not.” My voice came out strong and sincere, and Rachel took note.
“You’re not,” she repeated. “And you sound like you mean it. Steve’s memory is still in the way, huh?”
I flinched, and Rachel caught my look of dismay, but ploughed on regardless. “So all right, what is this ‘Dan and I’ business?”
“He’s teaching me to mix music,” I burst out, unable to hold my exciting news in. “He’s training me to be a sound engineer.”
Now, Rachel was my best friend. Had been so since college. We had gone through an awful lot of stuff together, the best, the worst, and everything in between. We sat at each other’s hospital beds and danced at each other’s weddings. She was there when Dan crash-landed back in my life when I was twenty-eight, and she cheered me all the way along. She understood the attraction and the sex and the glamour. But she had never ‘got’ the music. Not surprisingly, she looked at me blankly.
“A sound engineer.”
I pursed my lips into a goofy smile and nodded. “Yes, a sound engineer.”
“Like the chap who sits behind that desk with all the buttons and does weird geeky things.”
“Exactly like so.”
“And that is exciting because…?”
“Oh Rach, how can I make you understand? It’s amazing. It’s like doing magic. You’ve got the great musicians there, and their talent is unbelievable. Yet they put their trust, their faith, their music into your hands to make a fantastic performance outstanding, to add the edge, the sparkle, the fizz.”