by Rick Hautala
The moment Stuart heard the lock’s tumblers click and saw the door swing open, a shudder rippled through him, and he felt suddenly weak in the knees. His lungs hurt because he’d been holding his breath, and his mind became a roaring, white blank as he followed Al into the spacious studio. He hardly registered what he was looking at as he scanned the room with its glassed-in sound booth spanning the length of one wall. Arrayed around the spacious room was a chaos of sound boards, instruments, foam-covered microphones, stacked amplifiers, folding chairs, tables, and a tremendous assortment of guitars and other equipment. Al was prattling on about something or other, but Stuart found it almost impossible to pay attention to what he was saying as he tried to process what he was thinking.
No way! It can’t be, he told himself over and over. There’s no fucking way there’s any kind of connection!
But he couldn’t deny it. Every single one of the people whose photograph adorned the Sharp Sounds Studio walls had died not long after that particular picture had been taken. Another thing that struck Stuart was, from what he knew about rock ’n roll history, he’d bet his left nut most rock critics would agree that every single one of those pictures had been taken when the artist had been at the peak of his or her career. Maybe not their peak in popularity, which in most cases had soared even higher following their deaths, but at least they were at their artistic peak!
The more he thought about it, the more obvious the connection became until Stuart was absolutely convinced.
“So...?“ Al asked, gesturing around the studio with a wide sweep of his hand. “Would you like to play a little something for me? See how it sounds?“
Startled by the question, Stuart looked around, blinking his eyes like a mole caught out in the sunlight. He had been so wrapped up in his line of thought that he felt almost as if he didn’t belong here, as if he had no idea who he was, or what he was doing here.
Al walked over to where there were several guitars arrayed in foam-cushioned guitar stands. He selected one, a black-bodied Martin acoustic, and hefted it before handing it over to Stuart.
“Come on,“ Al said, smiling and nodding eagerly. “I’ve heard your records, but I’d like to hear what you can do on your own. Tune it up and play a little something for me. I’ll go into the booth and get the tapes rolling.“
“I, uh, I don’t know, Mr. Silverstein.“ Stuart stammered. “I mean, I’m not, uhh—“
His first thought was that he might be violating his Relativity contract in some way, especially if Al recorded it, but he pushed that objection from his mind and sat down in one of the folding chairs. After adjusting one of the microphones so it was close to the sound hole of the guitar, he strummed the strings a few times and turned the pegs until he was satisfied that it was in tune. He figured what the hell. He’d play a bit of “Find Me a Star,“ a song he had written a few years ago but was keeping from the band because he thought it was so damned good he was saving it for his solo album.
He heard a tap-tapping on the window of the sound booth and, looking up, saw Al leaning on both fists over the control board. He raised one hand and touched the headphones he had put on his own head, then pointed down at the floor by Stuart’s feet. Stuart looked around until he saw the set of headphones that was hanging on the microphone stand. He picked them up and slipped them on, adjusting them to fit his ears comfortably.
“Can you hear me all right?“ Al asked.
Coming through the headset, the man’s voice seemed much too close for Stuart’s comfort, but he forced himself to smile broadly as he gave Al a quick thumbs-up.
“The vocal mike’s on, too. Just say a few words so I can check the levels,“ Al said.
Stuart cleared his throat and said, “Check. One—two. Check. One—two—three.“
“Okay, we’re ready to roll,“ Al said, smiling at him from the glass booth. “Just let ’er rip whenever you feel like you’re ready, okay? One, two, three... “ He counted and then pointed at Stuart. “We’re rolling.“
Stuart checked once more to make sure the guitar was in tune, then started picking the opening melody of “Find Me a Star.“ As Stuart’s fingers glided up and down the strings, the music broke the muffled silence of the studio. Trying to get into the song, Stuart experienced at least a momentary measure of satisfaction. The fact was, he loved playing guitar. When he was in junior high school, he had found music and used it to escape the turmoil of living in the slums of Chelsea with his divorced mother and two younger brothers. Music had always been a refuge, even after he’d achieved a certain level of success and had plenty of money to buy whatever he wanted. He always found comfort and escape when he was playing and singing.
Turning his head away from the microphone, Stuart cleared his throat and then began to sing, letting the words and tune carry him further away. His sudden irrational fears about the photographs in the hallway seemed to melt away, and he was soon lost inside his song. The notes seemed to issue from the guitar like a gush of warm water that surrounded and soothed him. His voice, which he had never had all that much confidence in, seemed to sound infinitely smoother and richer in this room. He hit every note with a precision and confidence he had never felt before in his life. By the time he was into the last verse, his eyes were actually misting with tears.
As if for the first time, Stuart truly heard and felt the gut-wrenching longing and deep loneliness that was at the heart of his song. He heard it now as a desperate plea for a tiny measure of peace and tranquility in his hectic life as a rock n’ roll star.
The only problem was, Stuart knew he wasn’t at the top yet.
Not really.
At least not as far as he was concerned.
No, he still felt as though he was nothing but a phoney, a fraud, a rock n’ roll wannabe who could still be impressed by pictures of the truly great dead rock stars—the real legends of rock.
So what if his band’s album had made it to number one? Brokenface had only been in the top spot for one week! That was squat! Nothing! Lots of groups did that and quickly dropped out of sight and into the “Where Are They Now?“ file. One hit wonders. A flash in the pan. Stuart knew the pressure was on him and the band to deliver a follow-up that sold. They had to make a record that would get them back into the top spot and keep them there for more than one week. If they didn’t do that, then in a few months they, too, would be gone and forgotten.
Stuart hit the last chord and sustained it, letting it fade slowly away as his voice dropped off to a trembling, breathy whisper. For a long time, there was perfect silence in the studio. Then, after drawing a slow, shaky breath, Stuart heard the muffled sound of Al’s applause through the glass of the control booth.
“Fantastic! Fan-fucking-tastic!“ Al shouted, his voice sounding too close and loud for comfort through the headphones.
Feeling absolutely drained of everything, Stuart stared blankly at the fat man in the control booth. For just an instant, he saw—or thought he saw—something, a spark of red that flashed in the man’s eyes. Stuart grunted with surprise, telling himself it was just the reflection from the control panel’s lights. But whatever it was, it immediately brought Stuart’s twisted train of thought roaring back even stronger. And with it came a frightening question.
Who the hell is this guy, anyway? Powerful waves of shivers raced up Stuart’s back and then broke across his neck like a surprise dousing of ice water.
“I’m telling you, man,“ Al said, his voice still rasping with excitement inside the headphones. “That was unbelievable! Absolutely fantastic!“
Stuart started to get up from the chair, but Al waved him back down.
“Stay right where you are,“ he shouted. “I’ll let you hear the playback. I’ll fool around a little with the mix as we go.“
Stuart was still feeling emotionally and physically drained after singing the song, so he slung the guitar to one side, slouched back in the chair, and closed his eyes. After another few seconds during which he tried his best not to
think any more about the photographs out in the hall, the sounds of his guitar and voice filled the studio. Once again, as he listened to the song he had just finished playing, he experienced perhaps even more deeply than before that undefined sense of loss and loneliness and hurt. And once again, the song carried him away, reminding him just how hard he had worked to get where he was today, and how much he still wanted to make it all the way to the top and stay there.
Maybe it was simply the power of suggestion, but even in playback, Stuart thought his guitar playing and singing had vibrancy, a richness he had never heard before. He couldn’t help but remember what Al had said about how he could get a sound in this studio that was absolutely unique.
As he sat there with his eyes closed, his head swaying gently back and forth in time with the music, a sudden flash of light startled Stuart. His eyes snapped open, and as he looked up through the brilliant blue-white afterimages that zig-zagged across his vision, he saw Al. In his hand was the camera he had just used to take a picture of him.
“Hey,“ Al said, smiling as he shrugged. “I had to take at least one picture of you for—you know—for posterity’s sake. You never know when someone’s gonna hit their peak.“
Blinking away the afterimages of the flash, Stuart saw Al’s mouth widen into a hard, almost frightening smile that looked like a pained grimace. Blue and white dots were still swimming across his vision as he stood up and pushed the chair away with the backs of his legs. The thought came back to him, screaming in his mind—Who the fuck is this guy?
“So, what did you think?“ Al asked excitedly. “How’d it sound to you?“
“Unbelievable,“ Stuart said in a whisper that almost cracked with tension. A subtle, loose trembling ran through his body as he started toward the studio door that led back out into the hall. Al was close behind him. Casting a sly glance over his shoulder at the man, Stuart wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see that same vibrant red glow deep within his eyes, but Al looked back at him with a steady, clear gaze.
“It sounded...absolutely fantastic,“ Stuart said softly, horribly aware of how shaky his voice sounded. When he shouldered open the door and stepped out into the corridor, his gaze was drawn against his will to the row of glossy photographs.
“And hell,“ Al said, “that wasn’t even with a good mix. Why, I’ve got a sound engineer, a guy named Eddie Pearl, who can jack that up so it sounds ten times better.“
Stuart was speechless as he nodded absently. He suspected that Al was fishing, that he wanted him to say something more about the quality of the sound, but all he could think about was the every one of the people in these photographs was dead. Rationally, he knew that it wasn’t possible each of these people’s deaths could be connected—in any way—to their having recorded here, but he couldn’t get that thought out of his mind. Every one of them—from Buddy Holly to Stevie Ray Vaughn—had recorded here, and every one of them had died shortly thereafter.
“But they were all...all at their peak,“ Stuart said in a hushed voice. His feet made a soft whispering sound on the carpet as he started toward the exit.
“What’s that?“ Al asked, regarding him with a deepening frown. “What’d you say?“
Stuart opened his mouth, desperately wanting to say something to Al about what he suspected, but he said nothing as he pushed the door open and stepped outside. The afternoon sun dazzled his eyes, making everything appear hazy and indistinct.
It seemed so foolish now, he thought, but he was suddenly afraid that, if he did agree to record at Al’s studio, then he, too, might die before he got old, as the old son went.
But isn’t that the rock n’ roll legacy? He thought. Live hard and fast, make a lot of money, fuck a different woman every night, and then die young!
The thought tantalized Stuart, and he told himself that, even if this was the case, it might not happen right away. There was no doubt in his mind that each of those musicians had died at the absolute peak of their artistic abilities. If nothing else, Stuart was convinced that he had a long way to go before he approached their status as rock legends.
But even if he had peaked, what did it matter?
The driving force behind his career up until now had been that he was going to make it!
Make it big!
If recording at Sharp Sounds Studios could somehow guarantee something like that, then maybe—Christ, yes! He was willing to take the chance. He’d pay Al Silverstein double...hell, he’d pay triple what Al was asking to use his studio.
“So, we got a deal?“ Al asked, his face split by a wide smile that made his teeth flash in the sunlight. “You think you and the rest of the band will come here to see what we can do?“
Leaning much closer than Stuart found comfortable, Al seemed almost to be leering at him. He could feel the man’s warm breath on his cheek. Once again, for just an instant, Stuart thought he caught a flash of red light deep within the man’s dark eyes. Out here in the bright sunlight, after being in the subdued lighting of the studio, Al’s face seemed unnaturally white. He appeared to be a man who seldom if ever came outside during the daytime.
Stuart tried not to read anything menacing into Al’s words or tone of voice, but just contemplating the offer made him shiver inwardly in spite of the warm sun on his back.
“Where are you parked?“ Al asked, shading his eyes as he scanned the small parking lot beside the building.
“Over there,“ Stuart replied, nodding in the direction of the red Corvette that sat in the shade across the street.
“Well, let me walk you to your car,“ Al said, stepping even closer to Stuart. “You know, you’ll want to think about all of this very carefully. I don’t make an offer like this to just anybody, you know.“
Stuart bristled inwardly. He wanted to remind Al that his band’s latest album, for which he had written the words and music for more than half the songs, had charted at number one. Sure, it had only lasted at number one for a single week, but there was no fucking way he was just anybody! Not after all the years he’d dedicated to his career.
But Stuart was sure Al Silverstein wasn’t the kind of person who would be overly impressed by anything Stuart had done. No, not a man who had actually been in the studio when Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison.
Stuart didn’t say anything as, side by side, they crossed the street. Once they were standing beside Stuart’s car, he fished the keys from his pants pocket and unlocked the door. Looking past Al to the small, brick building, he silently weighed his options whether or not he should record here and if he should record with or without the rest of the band. Finally, though, he raised his right hand, clasped Al’s hand, and shook it firmly. He was struck by the man’s cold, dead-feeling handshake, but he pushed that thought from his mind and said, “Yes sir, Mr. Silverstein. I’d say we’ve got ourselves a deal.“
A tight smile spread across his face, and his insides felt like they were vibrating at an unnaturally high frequency until he let go of Al’s hand. A hard lump formed in his throat, and no matter how hard he tried to swallow it, it wouldn’t go down.
“It might take us a couple of days, maybe a week or two to work out all the details,“ Stuart said, his voice sounding unusually tight. “But I’m telling you, man—“
Looking back at the studio building, he whistled between his teeth and shook his head as he tried to recall the clarity with which his voice and guitar had sounded just moments ago in there. But the sound was elusive. It was already slipping away, and all he was left with was a strange yearning to hear it again. If Al could make a whole album sound like that, there was no way he could let the opportunity slip.
“The way that playback sounded,“ he said, shaking his head wistfully. “Shit, man, you must be working some kind of magic in there.“
“Oh, we do,“ Al said, still smiling widely, his teeth gleaming in the sunlight. “We most certainly do. And now you’ll be one of the very select few who gets to record here at Sharp Sounds Studio.“
&nbs
p; Stuart froze for a moment. Licking his lips, he said, “A select few.“
Al nodded gravely. “Absolutely true. I don’t record just anybody but—sadly—all of them have … well, as you probably already know from the pictures in the hall, every one of them is dead. Hendrix, Lennon, Brian Jones, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin...all of them are gone. They’re dead...dead legends of rock ’n roll. It’s tragic, really, how so many of them were just starting to reach their peak when they died.“
“Yeah, but there—there’s no way...“ Stuart said, shaking his head. He bit down on his lower lip but was unable to keep from saying what he’d been thinking all along. Closing his eyes for a moment, all he could see in his mind was the line of framed black and white photographs on the wall in the corridor.
“But there’s can’t be any connection, can there? I mean...all those people didn’t die just because they...because they recorded here. How could that be?“
Al shrugged. “I don’t know,“ he said, his voice dropping to a low, gravely growl. “Maybe there’s no connection whatsoever...but then again, maybe there is. I guess what it all comes down to is how much you want it...how much you’re willing to risk.“
Al had been smiling all along, but now his smile spread even wider, exposing the top and bottom rows of his wide, flat teeth. He looked like he was about to take a bite out of something. Shadows from the leaves overhead shifted across his face, making his skin ripple like he was underwater. Feeling weak in the knees, Stuart opened the car door and sat down behind the steering wheel.
“But you can rest assured, Stuie-boy,“ Al said, leaning forward with one hand resting on the opened door, the other on the car roof. “If by any chance you do meet an untimely death...well, just like all those other famous rock stars, you’ve already laid down one track here. And I’ll be sure to put that photograph I took of you up right there on my studio wall.“