“Cheap is good.”
“I picked up twenty or so software plug-ins, including Guitar Rig, Lexicon reverbs, MOTU Ethno Instrument, and MOTU’s Symphonic Instrument. Their software’s easier to use.”
“I’m into analog. Old school. Lo-fi.”
“Ah.”
“But this will do.”
He moved to vocals. He raved about a couple of Avalon M5 preamps he loved for their warmth; rattled off many different Neumann microphones, which he used exclusively; and showed her a separate room he had built for recording vocals. “The room is acoustically perfect.”
“You know how to talk to a chick like me, don’t you?”
“It’s all about technology.”
“Time will tell.”
He jumped to drums, pianos, and synthesizers. Rachel banged around a full Pearl drum kit mic’ed in the corner of the room, and played “Chopsticks” on a second-hand Kawai baby grand piano that he had bought at a moving sale. To show off the full palette of production sounds, he demoed a rack of vintage synthesizers from Roland, Korg, and Moog.
Saving his slew of acoustic and electric guitars for last, he pointed out three Martin guitars on stands, an HD28, a D42, and an OM42, as well as a slew of electric guitars hanging on the wall, including a Fender Stratocaster, a PRS Custom, and a Gibson Les Paul Standard.
“Solid set of equipment and the acoustic recording booth is spiffy. Let me play you the song I wrote from the booth.” She opened her guitar case and lifted out a beat-up Santa Cruz Vintage Artist with most of its gloss picked off around the sound hole. “Years of touring.”
“Ah.” Hard work, not misuse. She was out there living the dream. Why hadn’t he ever toured like that when he was younger? He mic’ed her guitar and set up a vocal microphone. In the control room, he opened a new song called “Rachel,” and pushed record on Digital Performer. He stilled.
She began messing around up and down the fret board of her guitar. The partial lead from “As My Guitar Gently Weeps.” The opening of “Over the Hills and Far Away.” The solo from “All Along the Watchtower.” Placing her pick between her teeth, she fingerpicked a classical piece, “Concierto de Aranjuez,” by Rodrigo.
Wow! She was old school in more ways than one.
“This is called ‘Gordian Knot.’” She launched into an intricate and percussive guitar part, which drove the song. The first verse, “Last time I saw you, I didn’t know you / Only outlines of some other life / I thought we had gone below the surface / But I was wrong / We never will,” caught hold.
His arms tingled, like the first time he heard “A Day in the Life.” Her tone, pure and raspy, and runs, Beatlesque but atonal, were amazing. A hint of Sarah McLachlan? Or Patty Griffin? Could he capture all of the feeling? “Good song.”
“I know. The question is what can you do with it? Here’s the chorus and the bridge. ‘Time will tie your distinction / Like a Gordian Knot / Time will tie your distinction / Cut the Gordian Knot / There is a world you’ve never seen / Where you can say what you feel / Where you can stand naked without fear / There are keepers of light there / No Gordian Knots.’”
“Nice. First, I’d add a strong drum track with a heavy rock feel. Then I’d add an electric guitar that builds on your main riff. Then an organ, probably a Hammond B3, to make the chorus and bridge a little fuller.”
She smiled. “Want to go see a band with me on Friday? We can stop for pizza at DiFara’s along the way, if you’re up for the wait.”
“Do you always ask people out who you’re about to employ?”
“Only when I’m interested in fucking them.”
His face warmed. Raine popped into his thoughts, in her Columbia dorm room, naked, watching him dress from the bed. He had no idea why. “I’m coming off a pretty serious relationship.”
“How long ago did she dump you?”
“A little over a year.”
“You haven’t gotten laid in a year? Man, you need me more than I thought. Meet me at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Thirteenth at 7:00 on Friday night. We’ll check out the band after Difara’s; then, we’ll see. You in?”
• • •
On Friday, he made his way toward the meeting location. The city heat, oppressive, forced him to stop for a bottled water from a street vender. What to make of Rachel? He wouldn’t have described her as attractive, yet he was drawn to her. The whole grunge-army-tattoo look wasn’t his thing, yet he liked it on her. In-your-face girls? Never. Yet here he was. A musician? A client? Both firsts. Why was he excited to see her? He missed Sassa.
Several blocks away from the corner of Sixth Avenue and Thirteenth, he spotted a girl waving in his direction. He didn’t recognize her. Dancing as she waved, she reminded him of a picture he’d once seen of his mom and dad pogo dancing at an early seventies punk party. He moved another block closer. Rachel. He waved back. As he closed the gap between them, he sipped his water.
She had transformed. Wearing a brightly colored summer dress circa 1969, she had brown leather boots on that kissed the hem of her dress right below her knees. Long, flowing black hair had replaced her braids. Pastel makeup and hoop earrings, which almost touched her shoulders, matched the red and purple in her dress. She was beautiful.
“You look completely different.”
“What’s with you? You met me once before, and you’ve got me all figured out? I only dress a certain way? My hair is always fixed the same? I only paint my face with black makeup? I told you before, I don’t like labels.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We’re going to see Fleet Foxes tonight, and this is how I felt like dressing for the show. Can you handle my look or should I call someone else who doesn’t give a shit about such silly things?”
“I’m sorry. You look great.”
“Ah, so this is a look you like. I’ll make sure I take note and dress accordingly the next time I’m with you.”
“I hope there is a next time.”
“Oh, stop being a wimp, Nick, and show some balls. I’m going to see a lot of you in the coming months. We both know it, so stop acting like you don’t understand what’s happening.”
“What’s happening?”
“We’re about to become lovers.”
“We are?”
“I’m stating the obvious.”
After the concert, Rachel asked Nick back to her converted attic—a Bedford-Sty apartment. He followed her up three flights of stairs and entered a large room. Her clothes covered the floor, which served equally as a closet and a walkway. Dirty plates covered the countertops and table in her studio kitchen. Garbage overflowed onto the floor from a makeshift paperbag waste basket. CDs, in and out of their jewel cases, occupied what little space remained on chairs, tables, the bed, and the floor.
She cleared off a spot on her bed and waved him over. “Come here.' Shoving him down on the bed, she lifted her dress over her head, and mounted him. Folding lust like origami, she moved on him, through him, in him, and shaped desire.
He had no idea what she was doing. A name? What a beautiful body. With so much magic in it, he had to accept his role—student. He reached down to pull off his shirt.
She cuffed his wrists with her hands. “I’ve got you.”
Once she had undressed him, she glided toward him until her face hovered only an inch from his and began a deep-aggressive, shallow-soft rhythm with her lips and tongue. Her stare was so intense that for a moment he believed he was already inside her. A moment later she was. She coupled their bodies together with precision—arms, fingers, breasts, legs, tongues— finding their momentary roles in a larger movement. As he inched closer to finishing, she slowed down. “Breathe.' She built up again only to stop an instant before he crossed the point of no return. Shaking all over, he tried to hold back as his entire body arched off the bed. She sped up. A burst. Collapse. Death. Bliss.
“There you go. No need to cry, man. There’s a lot more where that came from. Now show me what you can do.' She rolled onto
her back.
“You didn’t come?”
“That was more about you.”
“I need to work on that.”
“You do. And when you’re done, you’ll never need to ask me again.”
He flipped over and straddled Rachel. His shoulders and neck tightened. She had skills. How could he match her? Gradually, he worked his way down her body, focusing first on her breasts, then her stomach, finally opening her legs. He devoted himself there.
A short time later, she laughed. “What are you doing?”
He popped up. “What do you mean?”
She propped herself up on her arms. “Do you have any clue on how to go down on a woman?”
“You didn’t like what I was doing?”
“If I graded you, the most you would get would be two out of ten.”
Fuck. He jerked over on his back. Was she serious? This had never happened to him before. A giant cobweb in the corner of the ceiling, intricate and old, caught his attention. He had to do better. “I’m sorry, let me try again.”
“No, man, not right away. I need to give you a few lessons first on female anatomy. Then I’ll let you try again.”
“I’m so sorry. It’s not like I haven’t done this before.”
“I’m sure you have. You just haven’t done it well.”
“I’m so sorry.” He draped one leg over the side of the bed.
She reached for his forearm and gently tugged him toward her. “Stop acting like a hurt puppy. Sex is like everything else in life. You need to practice and work hard at perfecting your craft, man. I mean, the equipment you’ve got is fine; you just don’t know how to use it that well. Your tongue is the brush and I’m the canvas. I’m looking for a masterpiece every time.”
“Should I leave?”
“Leave? You’ve gotta be kidding me. No way.”
“Are you sure?”
“I got you off, now you need to get me off. You can’t bail on me. You need to keep working. You can leave after you get it right.”
Rachel was a mistake. He hadn’t heard any negative feedback in the past. He wanted out of there. Too much truth. Did he just say that? Deep breath. In. Out. In. Out. He could do this. Slow and steady. One step at a time, it was workable. Slowly, he kissed his way down her body.
“Less of that. . . . Better. . . . More of that.” After a few minutes, she stopped instructing and spread her legs a little wider. A short time later, she moaned softly.
Did she come? He glanced up. Eyes closed, smiling. A little more to be sure. Gradually, every muscle in her body released and stilled. Done.
He crawled up next to her. “How did I do?”
“Well, on a positive note, I came. This isn’t horseshoes, man. Almost doesn’t count.”
“And on a negative note?”
“You need a lot of work. You clearly didn’t have an older woman in your life when you were young. Forget the war draft, man. I think all eighteen- year-old boys should be drafted into the League of Older Women so you all know what the fuck you’re doing before you go out into the world.”
“Make love, not war.”
She rolled her eyes as if she expected, welcomed the comment. “Luckily, you’ve got a good teacher now. We’re done for today. ”
“So soon?”
“You’re such a girl.”
“I’ll leave.”
She sat up, pulled the sheet up over her, and pointed across the room. “Take that book at the end of the first row of my bookshelf.”
A moment later, he was dressed. He kissed her good-bye, crossed over to the bookshelf, and pulled out her copy of the Kama Sutra. Thumbing through the pages, he occasionally stopped on a picture. Her teacher. “You practice this stuff?”
“Every day, man, every day. Don’t worry, I’ll get you there. Tonight’s preview barely scratched the surface.”
• • •
Nick flipped back and forth between two pages of the Kama Sutra. Rachel. How did she get her body into those positions? She would teach him. In bed with her, he’d been amazed, scared, embarrassed. He’d wanted to run. But he’d hung in there. Rachel. He reached for his phone, placed it back down on the coffee table. Seconds passed. He reached again, this time to call Sassa. He shook his head. No contact for a year. He skid the phone on the table and watched it spin.
A moment later, it rang. He shut his eyes and lifted the phone to his ears.
“Hey. It’s me. Let’s make plans.”
“Why don’t I finish your tracks first?”
“That’s lame. Why?”
“I want to prove myself.”
“No need.”
“Really.”
“Okey dokey. I get it. Call me when you’re ready.”
He tossed the Kama Sutra on the floor. She knew. She knew and she didn’t press. A lightness overtook him. Vaulting off his sofa, he grabbed his tablet off the end table. Jumping from chapter to chapter in a tantric sex book he’d downloaded, Tantracize Your Life, he practiced in his head for a long time. It was easier there. Later, he hurried out of his apartment for a walk, determined to do better, like a boy learning to play guitar who’d discovered that the pain and callouses on his fingertips were fuel.
Days passed.
One morning, he was reading on his sofa about a new position, trying to imagine contorting his body so that it matched the picture. Tantric origami. Lifting off the sofa, he tried to shape his legs, hips, and arms. Instead, an idea took shape. They never failed him. This one, particularly simple. He’d live with the results of flipping a coin. Heads, he would end it with Rachel; tails, he would continue seeing her. He pulled a quarter out of his pocket and flicked it up high in the air. The quarter landed and roadrunnered under the sofa. On his hands and knees, he blindly patted the floor until he located the coin, then slid it into view. An eagle stared upward at him. Three out of five? No. He owed her that much.
A few hours later, she clocked in at the studio. “Let’s hear it.”
“Here you go.”
He played “Gordian Knot.” He’d recast her song from a singer/songwriter acoustic-driven piece into a Zeppelinesque polished production. The drums boomed, masculine, as if Jon Bonham had played on the track himself. An acoustic introduction led into crunchy electric guitars and a melodic bass riff, both of which complemented Rachel’s original guitar line. A Hammond B3 organ differentiated the chorus and bridge. Preoccupied with his work, he glanced her way. She had to love it.
“It sucks,” she said.
“What?”
“The master is too polished, too lush. There isn’t enough edge. I want a rougher feel, with more dissonance. I want the acoustic guitar more front and center. I don’t want to sound like a female version of Led Zeppelin or anyone else.”
“You don’t like it?” he asked.
“I’m looking for something more original, more unique. I want to sound like Rachel Lyst. I hoped you might help me build my sound, but I may have been wrong. Maybe we’re too different, man. The song needs to open up and soar. You lost all of the emotion.”
“Wow. And I thought I’d nailed it.”
“You can’t work on my songs on your own, Nick.”
• • •
Fuck. Nick was done with her. Time to move on. He’d recorded parts that he loved and had mixed those parts perfectly, using his full array of high-end audio processing equipment, which Rachel would never have had access to on her own. High-quality work. And cheap. What was her problem? Why all the blunt, gruff feedback? Why had she dissed his version?
Days passed. Anger settled. One morning, as he hurried toward the studio for a session, two words hit him like Jimmy Page smashing his Les Paul at the end of a concert. His version. When he arrived, without hesitation, he clicked the delete button on all the tracks he’d created for “Gordian Knot.” He called Rachel, asked if she could join him in the studio later in the afternoon, and promised the visit would be worth her time.
Breezing into the studio just be
fore 4:00, she put the top of the baby grand down, and perched herself on the lid, palms down for support. “Well?”
“I realize my mistake,” he said. “I didn’t see you clearly enough to make my work an extension of yours. I changed the feel so much that you ended up a guest vocalist on your own song. If the roles were reversed, if you had performed heart surgery on one of my songs, I would’ve had the same reaction. I apologize. I acted like a jerk.”
“I would have said asshole, but close enough. I banned the word should from my vocabulary a long time ago. Way too much judgment.”
“Asshole, then.” She was softer, more alive, prettier, vulnerable, as if he’d just met her for the first time. What had happened to her? “I finally understand what you’re looking for. I wonder if we might work on the song together now to see if we’re in sync.”
“Go for it.”
“The intensity and anger in the lyrics need to come through.”
“It’s an angry song, especially on the chorus and bridge.”
“I was struggling with how to support the anger with the electric guitar part, but now I have an idea. What do you think of this?” He picked up his Les Paul, flipped the standby switch on his amp, played a new guitar part for her. Like some of his best work, the idea came from someplace soft, deep, spiritual. He was just the channel.
“Much better. A little more atonal.”
“Like this?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m looking for.”
Together, in a few hours, they hammered out the song and crafted a “Gordian Knot” that went well beyond Rachel’s original vision. And Nick’s. He’d never written with anyone before, and he found it surprisingly satisfying. How could two completely different people create seamless music?
At around 8:00, Rachel planted her arm on Nick’s shoulder. “Why don’t we stop now?”
“Why?”
“We just decided to be longterm lovers. I want to celebrate the occasion.”
“I’ve been reading.”
The Color of Home: A Novel Page 15