Never Say No To A Rock Star

by Berger, Glenn

  Bob paused, crushed out his stub with his boot, and said, “It’s a disaster. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

  The room started to melt and swirl like chocolate stirring in cake batter. Everything got fuzzy around the edges. I felt nauseous and dizzy.

  I walked out of the room, defeated, empty, despondent, despairing. I stumbled over to the coffee machine. There were plastic rings with handles. You’d put a hot cup in the ring, so you had a handle to hold the cup. I held the ring, and completely spaced on the cup. I didn’t need to be drinking the rot gut that was in the pot at three in the morning, anyway. We would be going home, and theoretically going to sleep, but I wasn’t thinking. I had just needed an excuse to get out of that infernal room. I poured the hot mud through the ring, and stood there watching the black bitter goo stream over my shoe, causing it to smoke. I was devastated.

  I staggered out of the studio, wrapped in my winter coat, cold in the early morning air. I shared a cab with Heim, but this time neither of us said a word. We each gazed vacantly out the window. Once back at my apartment, I crawled into bed with Ivy asleep and oblivious and stared in agony at the ceiling for the rest of the night. I began to feel some weird feeling in my chest. Was it heartburn from the rotgut coffee or a heart attack? I’d watched Gideon’s heart attack so many times, how could I not be having one? I couldn’t take this anymore. I didn’t care what happened. I just needed out. Fuck the goddamn kudos.

  SCENE FOUR:

  Bye Bye Life

  I went in the next day a zombie. I hadn’t slept for a second. I sat at the board. We were all funereal. I asked the tech guy if he’d cleaned the heads, aligned the machines, made sure playback was perfect. He promised to give the heads an extra swab and check the test tape twice, so all the needles would read zero. That way, what we recorded would be played back exactly as we’d created it. Fosse came in last, as always, and without emotion, said, “Let’s play it back.” Again, I attempted to usher him to the best seat in the house. He resisted, heading for his spot in the front, next to the screen, saying, “No, no, that’s fine. You sit there.” For once, I got a look on my face of defiance. He’d never seen me look that way. He stopped and said, “OK,” and sat in the seat I wanted for him.

  What would Fosse think? Would we live, or like the end of a Shakespeare tragedy, would the stage be littered with corpses? With the air of inevitability, like a guy getting to flip his own switch sitting in the electric chair, I pushed the button.

  The epic, thirteen-minute death number began.

  A gentle music track begins, with harp and electric piano. This cross fades into a building fanfare with horns and rhythm section.

  Ben Vereen, playing a character named O’Connor Flood, a parody of show biz clichés like Sammy Davis Jr., introduces Joe Gideon, as he is about to perform his funeral song. He tells us that Gideon was adored but not loved. He was successful in show biz, but flopped in life and relationships. Twisted by drugs, sex, narcissism, cynicism, and self-loathing, he came to believe that everything, his whole life, even his success, all that jazz, was bullshit. Then the only thing real for him was death.

  Flood invites Gideon to the stage where he is met by thunderous applause.

  Thirteen minutes later, after the biggest act of self-parody in any movie ever made, death as a huge production number, Gideon finishes it off by singing, “Bye bye, my life … goodbye.”

  Huge rock band finish, crashing drums, pounding bass, screaming guitars, crowd going wild … fade out.

  Cross fade to the trip down the white tunnel, from silence to top volume.

  Cut to silence.

  Zipper.

  I waited. I was beyond fear, numb. I couldn’t care anymore. Acceptance.

  Bob turned to us and said, “It’s terrific. Sounds great. I guess I shouldn’t have listened last night. My ears must have been shot. Let’s move on. Let’s do the final credits.”

  That was it. Without a word, everyone danced their steps, did their choreography, prepared for the last detail. There was no whoop of glory, no audible sigh of relief, no acknowledgment, high fives, doing a jig. No. It was just back to work, serious, concentrated, focused, no bullshit, no jazz, no razzle fucking dazzle, just work. We made shit for everyone to scream over, while us we nihilumpen toiled away in the bowels of the earth, sullen, resigned to our fates. The fun was not for us.

  We had one last cue. As the final credits rolled across the screen, Ethel Merman sang the ultimate ironic song for this film, and my life, “There’s No Business like Show Business.”

  ACT SEVEN: THE SCREW

  SCENE ONE:

  The Scratch

  Roll the final credits. Long after the Merman song was done, by the time everyone would have left the theatre, right before the copyright and MPAA and IATSE logos, in white letters on a black background, for all of six seconds, my name scrolled by on the big screen. Fade to black, film runs out. Someone hits the stop button. And then the whole thing was done. Well, almost.

  Now, we weren’t repeatedly watching one scene, we were watching the entire film again, and again, and again. The tedium was bone-crushing.

  20th Century in California sent us a test four-track transfer. It was a nightmare. It sounded like shit. It was dull and hissy. My optimism for the 70mm was shaken. This method wasn’t so great, after all.

  This meant more work. All I could think about was the day I’d get out of this Sing Sing. But it was not to be, not yet. There was one more time, one more time.

  20th Century made us a new transfer. Yet again, we watched the whole friggin’ movie. We opted to use one part of the Dolby system, called noise reduction, to get rid of the hiss. The techies had fixed the dullness problem, so the new transfer sounded good, but there was still something odd about the sound. I figured out that the third track was out of phase. I had the maintenance guy at Trans Audio reverse the phase on that channel, and now the soundtrack was quiet, clean, bright, and virtually identical to our master. Maybe there was cause for hope.

  This left me with one last thing to do: get the sound systems right in the theatres for the premiere. The film would be opening at Cinema One, the second-most prestigious movie theater in New York at that time (after the Ziegfeld), and the Avco in Los Angeles.

  Fosse asked if I would fly out to help set up the theater in LA after we got things right in New York. Working on this big-budget movie, I’d get the star treatment. I’d travel first-class, get picked up by a limo, all that jazz. Not only that, he invited me to the premiere.

  Hollywood! I was going to a Hollywood premiere! I could see it now — the black and white news reel, crowds in front of the theatre, klieg lights, flash bulbs, the stars of the film being interviewed, Hollywood royalty coming to be seen, Bette Davis, Cary Grant, Henry Fonda, Jimmy Stewart, Katherine Hepburn, Ingrid Bergman. And I would be there!

  The release date of December 20th was fast approaching. When I went to Cinema One, I discovered the system was antiquated and in terrible shape. We convinced 20th Century to pay for a new sound system in the theatre. This meant new projectors, pre-amps, equalizers, power amps, and speakers. I was told that they’d be sending a technical wizard named Rich Woodcock who worked with the Dolby Company to install and tweak the new sound systems in both theaters. This would cost over $15,000, a shit-load of money in 1979. I was thrilled. I was now convinced the movie would play spectacularly for the audience. The fantasies started getting inflamed again: I’d get the nomination, no, I’d get the Oscar. The pain would be worth it.

  The first important screening was set for December 13th. Kenny Utt hustled a ticket for Woodcock to fly into New York on December 6th. When the date came, he didn’t show. Every minute that passed cranked up my anxiety. We needed as much time as we could to set up the system, and we were losing precious hours. Despite our panicked phone calls, he didn’t show till the evening of the 9th, leaving three days before our first screening.

  When Woodcock finally appeared, I could tell right
away what kind of guy he was. He was that classic techie prick that had been the bane of my existence since I entered the biz. These know-nothing losers hated the mixers, because we got to hang with the stars and get the credit while they did the shit work. They thought they knew it all because they understood, theoretically, the technical side, while we mixers were just pushing a few knobs around. Woodcock was a minor functionary snob who barely deigned to acknowledge my existence.

  On the 10th, the cocksucker started putting in the system, promising we would be able to hear something on the 12th. That would give us one day to make sure it all worked right. Given Murphy’s Law, which stated that if something could go wrong it would at the worst possible moment, this was a bad plan.

  The 12th came, and Woodcock informed us he was not ready. He would have to work late into the night.

  I told Woodcock to call me when he was done, so I could give it a listen, or if he needed help, because I knew how the film was supposed to sound. I waited to hear from him, but he never called. At some point, I must have fallen asleep.

  When I woke up a few hours later, I called Utt. He told me that Woodcock had left a message at 3:30 in the morning saying the installation was done and the system was ready. We were to meet him at the theater at nine to check out the film. This was the morning of the first screening.

  When we got there, Woodcock was nowhere to be found. The only person present was an eighty-year-old projectionist, who had never seen a 70mm film before. He didn’t know how to thread the four-track onto the new projector. Utt tracked down Woodcock, who refused to come. He said the projectionist could handle everything from here on out, and that his work was done and perfect.

  The show had to go on. The projectionist threaded up the film, as Fosse, Alan Heim, Utt, Ralph Burns, I, and a few other guys from the team sat scattered throughout the otherwise empty movie theatre.

  We told the guy to roll film. As we watched the title sequence, a nightmare rolled before our eyes. We watched in horror at the sight of a black line getting scratched down the middle of the pristine, $7,000 copy. We sat in stunned shock, as this lame old fart destroyed our beautiful creation. It was like helplessly witnessing the disembowelment of your favorite puppy — you could just feel the knife going down the midline. Time distorted, like what happens during any catastrophe. As if in slo-mo, we all turned in panic toward Bob. I was sure this was it for him. His wish to die right before the film opened was certain to come true now. He blanched, as we expected, but his recalibrated, if somewhat bionic, and most certainly cold-as-amphetamine heart continued to tick and tock.

  With Fosse not keeling over, we all turned toward the projection booth in the back of the theatre, and screamed, “STOP!” But the film kept running, and the gash kept cutting, and the black line kept ruining the first several hundred feet of film. I ran as fast as I could, through what felt like molasses, my legs unable to move fast enough, to the back of the theater, and up the stairs, and shook the oblivious projectionist from his hypnotic slumber.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I screamed.

  Alan was right there with me and yelled, “Stop the film!” as he leapt across the room, tackling the projector like a caught criminal. The light flickered out, the engine stopped its hum, the clickety-clack of the spokes in the sprocket holes silenced.

  We walked down the steps and back out into the theater, shaken to our bones. “Don’t do anything,” Bob said, trembling.

  We sat silently in the theatre, resounding from the shock, unable to incorporate what was going on. Utt was off frantically trying to score us another Reel Number One.

  Fosse sat alone, frozen. Finally, Ernie, one of the techs from Trans Audio, showed up. An ally, I thought, someone I could vaguely rely on. At least, I hoped so. A new reel arrived. Ernie, Alan, and the music editor hovered with the projectionist, and made sure the film was threaded correctly this time.

  In our state of post-traumatic stress, we flinched as the projectionist started up the film again. As we watched the new reel, I noticed all kinds of problems. The stuff that was supposed to sound like it was coming out of the center was all diffuse and weird sounding. That third channel was out of phase again. One speaker was distorting badly, the side channels were low in volume compared to the center channel, and the equalization was all wrong. Everything sounded tinny.

  When we got to reel six, the film broke. The projectionist pulled the movie out of the projector, and spliced the film back together, cutting out a piece of a musical number, mauling Fosse’s delicate, precise editing and complex vision. Fosse was still breathing, I don’t know how. He got up and left, clearly distraught, telling us to fix the problems.

  SCENE TWO:

  The Murder

  There was still no Woodcock, so Ernie and I set to work. We replaced a speaker, fixing the distortion, and reversed a wire so the phase problem was undone. With the moments shrinking, and the audience clamoring to come in, we had two more huge problems: the imbalance of the channels and the EQ.

  I said to Ernie, “OK, let’s get going on the balance of the channels. Let’s get up the alignment tape.”

  “Oh, no I can’t do that. That’s the Dolby stuff. I’m not allowed to touch that,” Ernie said, anxiously.

  “What? Come on! I mean, these guys promised everything was OK, and clearly it wasn’t, and now the guy is nowhere to be found! Let’s just put up the alignment tape and get this thing fixed! We’ve got a screening coming up in a matter of hours!”

  “No can do, friend. We’ll just have to get Woodcock down here.”

  I was so out of it. The blaring burlesque music from the film pounded in my head. I told myself I just needed a break, some sleep, and hoped to God I wasn’t going crazy. I took a deep breath. But then I had this strange feeling of guilt. No, that was crazy. Just because I was planning on leaving when this was all done, that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with this nightmare …

  “Well, get that shmuck Woodcock down here, now!” I bellowed.

  Utt looked at me, shaking his head. “I’m doing everything I can to get him here.”

  Ernie had to leave. I was alone in this, now. As the minutes passed I became increasingly livid. The steel doors were closing. Everything sounded horrible. My chance at stardom was getting sucked into the vortex of irretrievable time. And it wasn’t all about me. It was all about Jazz. It was this movie, our work, our glory. It was our art. It was our meaning, our purpose, our identity, our heart, our soul. We poured everything into this, and now it could all be ruined by one asshole who wasn’t showing up at the very last minute.

  I sat there, helpless, waiting, unable to fix anything.

  Rich finally showed up at 4 p.m. The show was set to go on in three hours. I explained to him what I was hearing: the side channels were low in volume. Rich had a sullen attitude as he reluctantly put up the reference tones from our master mix. Channel one read -4VU; channel two read 0VU; channel three was also -4VU. This proved my ears were correct. To accurately reproduce the balances we created between dialogue, music, and sound effects, and within the musical instrumentation itself, the three channels were supposed to read 0VU. That would mean that what we put in, we’d get out. No wonder the side channels sounded low; they were down four dB. But it was OK. This was a relief. This was a problem that was easy to repair.

  I pointed to the meters and said, “See? Just like I said, the side channels are down. Bring them up to zero, and everything should be cool.”

  Rich shook his head.

  “My machines are aligned correctly, to our specs. If the tracks are off, it is because your film is wrong.”

  Everything started to vibrate in front of my eyes. I looked at the clock. It was getting closer to five. “What difference does it make if your machine is calibrated correctly or not? The whole point of reference tones is so you can set up this equipment to match our equipment, so the audience will be able to hear what we created in the mix. Just turn the screw to make it match!”
/>
  “I’m not doing it, man. I spent hours getting this right. We don’t do that. We don’t adjust the alignment. Our alignment is the right one.”

  I could feel my muscles shake. Trying to stop myself from exploding, I lowered my voice, in desperation. I walked right up to Rich and looked him in the eyes. I decided to grovel.

  “Rich, you are right, I’m sure. (Even though I knew he wasn’t.) I’m sure your set up is perfect. I’m sure you are right that our reels are wrong. The movie is wrong. All wrong.” Now my voice became more beseeching. “But you’ve got to help me out here. We’ve got a premiere in days, a first screening in hours! I don’t care who is right and who is wrong, we just have to make it right NOW! You’ve got to help me fix — my fuckup!”

  “Look, I don’t know what to tell you. I set up the equipment to standard. I won’t adjust my system.”

  I could feel myself losing it. “You won’t change it. You won’t turn the screw, and make the needle read zero. You won’t do it?”

  Rich shook his head.

  I fell down the vortex. Everything broke inside me. All semblance of self-control disintegrated. I started to scream. “Give me the screwdriver! Give me the goddamn mother fucking screwdriver! You fucking asshole!”

  Woodcock looked at me with contempt and turned away.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take one more thing. My rage was beyond human capacity. I wailed, just screaming an inchoate, primeval sound. I raised my arms. I lunged for Rich Woodcock. He lifted his arms to ward off my attack, but I was possessed with superhuman strength. I put my hands around his throat and started to squeeze. He tried to push my hands away, as I banged him up against a wall, screaming and squeezing. He had a look of terror in his eyes, as I stared into them. Spit flew from my mouth as I yelled, “I’m going to kill you! You goddamn motherfucking piece of shit, if you don’t turn that goddamn screw I’m going to kill you!”