by Jesse Jordan
“Don't worry, I can create something,” Joey reassures Cora. “I'm not just a dumb guitar player.”
Cora closes her eyes and starts to hum her song. It's slow, a lot slower than most of the stuff we play, and in listening to it I can tell it's not supposed to be a power ballad. It's a straight ballad, none of the over the top guitars or beats that are normal in rock, and Ian's part is going to be reduced to a simple cymbal intro and a slow beat on the back end to keep time for Joey who's going to be carrying most of the notes. It's stripped, it's raw, but that is what lends it the power to move me to tears even as I listen to her hum, knowing the passion in the melody. It's haunting and moving, and even Ian is silent when she finishes and looks around bashfully. “So, can we work with that?”
“Oh yeah, we can work with that,” Joey says after a moment, his throat husky. “And it's going to kick the shit out of Eternal Flame.”
Joey's words are more than prophetic, as we spend the rest of the morning with Joey and Ian working on the tunes, while Cora and I sit in the booth side by side, our heads practically touching as we talk quietly about the changes we need to make to the lyrics. We actually end up with three versions, and Cora shakes her head in amazement as we finish. “You really want a duet version?”
“I'm not saying you ever have to perform it,” I reply, taking her hand and squeezing. “I'm not saying that it even has to be recorded. But I'd like to know that we made it, at least on paper. And it doesn't need to change the music any, it just means that we adjust the bridge a little, stretch out the playing a little bit longer to adapt to the extra verses. Besides... you deserve to have a love song written about you.”
In a total change of pace, we work through lunch, the creative juices flowing so hard and fast that we decide to ride the wave. First, Joey lays down his initial guitar track that I'll use for my singing later on. We're about halfway through that when Larry comes into the main studio, an interested smile on his face. “Hi, guys. I was walking down the hallway when I heard this on the speaker outside. What is it?”
“We're calling it Four Letters, we're going to use it for the last track,” I say before Larry can object. “Cora wrote it.”
Larry listens to Joey's run-through of the melody, nodding. “It's stripped and raw.”
“It's going to stay that way,” Cora adds. “The whole idea is that this is stripped and raw, just pure guitar and lyrics. It'll tap into the emotions that we want better.”
Larry gives Cora a suspicious look, unconvinced. “Cora, I know that everyone and their brother wants to be a songwriter in this industry, but are you sure?”
“Hold on,” Cora says, standing her ground. She looks at me, her eyes beseeching. “Rocky, can you and the guys do a live version of the full song, the version we worked up for the album?”
I smile, saying with my eyes what I won't say with my voice in Larry's presence, not yet. We don't need to say it out loud that we need to keep our relationship under wraps for a while longer, the guys being the only ones who know for now. Cora's warm blue eyes follow me as I go into the booth and I sit down on the bar stool next to the microphone. “Okay guys, what do you say?”
Ian gives me a thumb’s up while Joey adjusts his guitar a little, Cora hitting the monitor switch to let us hear on internal speakers what Larry and she are hearing in the booth. Cora comes over the intercom, her rich warm voice letting me set aside any fears. “Whenever you're ready, Rocky.”
From the first note of Joey's guitar, I'm lost in the song, putting my heart and soul into the reworked lyrics which are handwritten on a piece of paper in front of me. It's not perfect, there are a few places where even as I sing I recognize spots that we can change my delivery to better fit Joey's playing, but when the final note fades away, I can see the tears of happiness in Cora's eyes. That's worth any price, to hell with the rest of the album.
The silence stretches out, Larry's just looking through the glass at us, and because of the shine of the studio lights I can't get a good read on his expression, he's standing up too far out of the range of Cora's board lights. He's barely more than an outline against the grayish back wall of the board room, and I glance over at Joey, who also looks worried. Does he hate it? Does he think it's dogshit? Are we going to be stuck playing Eternal Flame for the final track?
Finally, Larry leans forward. “You guys have two days.”
“Two days for what?” I ask, confused. “What's in two days?”
“In two days, I'm bringing in executives from headquarters to listen to you guys play that again. I don't give a fuck, that's going to be the lead single from your album. That was… that was one of the best songs I've heard in the past decade,” Larry says into the microphone, then he turns and leaves the booth, disappearing into the hallway. His declaration hangs in the air, and I look through the glass at Cora, who is openly weeping and wiping at her eyes before she comes out of the booth and into the studio. The first person she goes to is Ian, who she hugs and plants a kiss on his cheek, making the big man blush for perhaps the first time in the five years I've known him before she wraps Joey in a tight hug, his guitar sandwiched between them painfully.
“Thank you both,” she says softly when she lets Joey go before coming over to me and putting her hands on both sides of my face, stroking my cheek and looking into my eyes. “And thank you... I love you.”
“I love you too,” I whisper back, stroking her hair and leaning in. We kiss, it's sweet and tender, with an undercurrent of passion that I know we can channel into what has to come. It's burning in Cora's eyes when she sits back, her face set as we nod. I look around at the guys and grin. “Okay... let's make magic.”
We get started, and it's not practice. It's a collaboration, a jam session. Each time we play through it, Joey's making little adjustments, Ian's picking up new wrinkles, but each change we make to it creates new layers and depth in the music. We drop changes, pick them back up later, but never do we grow tired of it until lunch. The whole time, Cora's grinning, recording every feed, gathering enough that she can spend hours reworking the master if she wants.
Finally, at five forty-five, Cora puts her hands up. “All right guys, let's call it a day. We can get this in the morning, and kick some ass for the suits.”
Joey and Ian quickly get their stuff together and leave, letting me trail behind, walking out with Cora. “So, that was almost too easy.”
Cora grins, adjusting her backpack. “Rocky... you remember the promise we made each other, about making millions in the studio together?”
“Of course, I do,” I reply, opening the front door for her. I see Martha coming down the hallway but ignore her, she can wait a few minutes. “You're feeling that too?”
Cora blushes and nods, smiling up at me. “Yeah, I do. Listen, I know we're kinda rushing things, and I can see in your eyes you've got questions right now about why I'm leaving so early again. But I promise you, more than ever, I'm going to answer all your questions. Just... give me one more day? This isn't the place.”
I nod, and Cora puts her hand on my chest, smiling. “Rocky, there's so many things I want to say, so much I want to get off my chest. That's why I want to do it somewhere special. Not a parking lot. Just know that... well, I love you.”
Cora gets in her car and drives off, and I watch her turn left until her taillights disappear into the traffic going by, smiling to myself. I'm interrupted by a cough behind me, and I turn to see Martha glaring at me. “What?”
“You just couldn't help yourself, could you?” she hisses, anger flashing in her eyes. “Even after all that we talked about, about trust and all that, you go and get lovey-dovey with her. And don't try to deny you didn't, I overheard her, and I can see it in your eyes.”
“And?” I ask, turning to face her. “Martha, you act like a jilted girlfriend. What the fuck's your problem with me and Cora getting together?”
“My problem?” Martha asks, shocked. “Where can I begin? First off, the fact that you're lettin
g yourself get involved with someone publicly again. When it was some celeb girl or someone who the dirt sheets could cover as 'aww, don't they look cute together,' I could spin this, and you didn't piss off your fan base. She's a girl from Simi Valley who's on food stamps, Rocky!”
“And who the fuck cares what her income is? And I'm sick and tired of you worrying about a fan base that is into me because of their goddamn fantasies of maybe someday in their dreams fucking me instead of liking my music. The fans understand that we're people. Hell, when I was a kid knowing that the Pussycat Dolls were seeing people didn't stop me from spanking the monkey over them and their asses!” I fume. “So back the fuck off on that!”
Martha purses her lips and takes a deep breath, her eyes filling with tears. “Rocky... don't you trust me anymore? Am I really that demanding of you, that you can't listen to my advice? I care about you too, you know.”
My anger evaporates, and I sigh. “Martha, I know that. I know you care about us as a band, and personally. I'm sorry, okay? And I know you have trust issues with Cora. I got that. But you and I, we trust each other, and I'm asking you to trust me on this one. You'll see, tomorrow. You're going to be blown away, it's going to be one of those songs people are going to be playing at their weddings, proms, and every other event for the next twenty years.”
Martha blinks again, wiping at her eyes. “Goddammit, Rocky,” she whispers huskily before taking a deep breath, calming herself. “All right. I gotta be there tomorrow for the session with the suits anyway, so we'll see how it goes. Regardless, I hope it goes well tomorrow for you guys. Really.”
“I know that,” I reply, patting her on the arm. “Don't worry, we're going to rock.”
Cora
The recording booth has never been more crowded, with seven people crammed into an area that really should only have two or three people at the most. With Larry, Martha, and the four executives from the corporate group all wearing business suits, I feel out of place in my jeans and blouse, but I can deal with that. Hell, this is music, where people show up for work dressed in all kinds of weird shit.
I'm more worried about the guys. I'm exhausted, we've been going at it with Four Letters since eight fifteen this morning, the guys beating me to the studio, waiting for me when I get in. We laid the tracks in the morning session, Joey's guitar and Ian's drums done before ten thirty, with Joey and Rocky laying their vocal tracks by lunch. I've still got the feeds ready to pick this time up as well, just in case, but I'm happy with what we've got. We've talked about making magic, but I think with what I have, I can do more than make magic. I think with this, the Fragments can make history.
Now we just must convince the suits. One of them is a very big player, and when Larry introduces him I realize the enormity of this. George T has been making and breaking people in the music industry since before I was born, and right now he's sitting next to me at the boards, looking at me levelly, the way a doctor looks at a particularly interesting rash perhaps. “So, Larry tells me that you're the songwriter for this?”
I swallow my nerves and nod, forcing myself to look him in the eyes. I'm not as shy as I was as a kid, but still, George T makes and breaks careers with a snap of his fingers. “Yes, sir. I wrote the lyrics back in high school, and the tune sort of worked itself out over the past five years. But really, it's been a team effort, the band took what I did and made it their own. Joey wrote down the actual melody with Ian, while Rocky and I reworked the lyrics to fit the guys. The original tune was more... well, it was more from the girl's point of view.”
George chuckles, nodding. “Not a problem. Considering that Larry was telling me you guys were working on a cover of Eternal Flame, I'd say turning girl tunes into good rock might be a specialty of yours. Just let's not get out of control and start looking at doing Poppa Don't Preach for the next CD. Shall we?”
I nod and turn back to the guys in the booth. I know George T was trying to make a joke to break my tension, but I'm too hopped up to laugh right now. I want the guys to reach George the way they reached me all morning, and my guts are churning from the combination of nervousness and having my heart torn open a dozen times this morning listening to the track. “Okay guys, we're ready. Tracks are rolling in three... two... one... hot mics.”
Rocky's sitting down for this performance and all three of them wearing headphones. Ian's normal drums have been pulled out and replaced with an electronic set, making the background noise in the studio itself nearly nothing. The guys have the hot feeds in their headphones, while in the booth we're getting surround sound.
Joey's guitar starts the song, his intro slow and plaintive, the sound nearly acoustic but not quite, we still want this to be a rock song. He goes for twenty-three seconds, just like we planned, and Rocky comes in with his opening verse. I'm caught up in the song, this is the best version he's done yet, his voice slightly husky, filled with want and sadness. It's the emotions I felt that night when I wrote the original piece on the trunk of my car, and as Rocky fades out to Joey's guitar solo, I'm finally able to tear my eyes away from the performance to look around at the suits. Everyone is rapt, with one of George's assistants closing her eyes and raising her face to the ceiling, just listening.
Rocky's voice takes over again, and I'm caught up again, listening as the man I love sings with all the soul that I could never produce. He sings his final verse, then the outro, Joey's guitar fading as Rocky finishes the last line of the song, and quiet reigns over the whole group. Finally, Rocky opens his eyes and looks at the booth. “Well guys, what did you think?”
I reach forward and hit the buttons to cut off the recording feed, unable to look at George or anyone else I'm so nervous. Finally, George leans forward and hit the intercom button. “Rocky... that's going to be a billion view video. Hell, that could be a two billion view video. And platinum is a given.”
I want to get up and cheer, to throw my hands up in excitement, but the power of Rocky's singing still makes everyone quiet, amazed at what they just listened to. Larry leans down and whispers in my ear. “Tell me you got that vocal track recorded.”
“Yeah,” I whisper back. “I can loop that onto the master no problem.”
My words break the almost reverent mood, and suddenly everyone's talking, praising the song and praising the guys. This isn't the normal industry back-slapping crap, almost everyone is heartfelt. “We've got to lead with this,” George's female assistant says, wiping at her eyes. “This is... this is a Grammy winner.”
“I don't know,” Martha interrupts, her face saying she's not pleased. “I mean, it's a good song, and I know that, but to be the lead single? This is going to be the band's first big LP release. If they get labeled as a ballad singing group, it could hurt their long-term success. I think it'd be better for the group to have a more rock lead single, then this can be a follow up later.”
George considers it, then shakes his head. “No. We go with this. Cora, I want a fully ready single by Tuesday, we can list it on iTunes and Spotify within a week.”
Martha shakes her head, shocked, and I feel the same way. A week? Albums are put together over the course of months, not a week. “Wait, why George?” she says, then realizes who she's talking to. “I'm just saying sir, should we rush? What about a video?”
George nods. “This is the sort of song we want ready for Valentine's Day, for prom season, for June brides and things like that. And the video is going to be easy, a classic performance video. We get a darkened auditorium or outdoor shoot, the guys performing it after a concert sort of thing. I'm thinking something a little like Bon Jovi's Dead or Alive sort of vibe. Black and white, limited color, let the song carry the whole thing. Come on guys, let's talk details in the meeting room.”
Larry and the other executives nod, and I lean closer to my intercom mic, looking into the studio. “You guys get all that?”
“Damn skippy,” Joey says, grinning ear to ear. “We're gonna be making a video.”
Meetings and other thin
gs take up the rest of the afternoon, and when I get ready to leave work, it's nearly eight o'clock. Thankfully, I'd thought this might happen and called Dad during a quick break to pick up Bella from daycare. Walking through the dark parking lot, I lean back, looking up at the full moon, a smile on my face of pure achievement.
“You did it,” I hear behind me, and I turn, seeing Rocky's loving face. “You did it.”
“No, we did it,” I reply, coming closer and hugging him. “We did it. You gave voice to my heart.”
“Yeah well... it's going to be a hell of the next two weeks,” Rocky says apologetically. “George is so over the top with this, it's insane. He wants us to film the video this weekend, then to take your digital download copy and have someone in the film division splice them together Monday or Tuesday. But we're already going to be on the road, he says. He's got the publicists working for booking spots on MTV, The Tonight Show again, whatever we can get. His plan is to drop a teaser video by Thursday, with a 'premiere concert' to be a week from this Saturday night, the full video debuting just after that. I have no idea how he's going to book a big venue and get the word out in a week, but he plans on it.”
I shake my head, amazed. “Rocky. We’ve made it.”
“Not yet, Muse, but we're halfway there,” Rocky teases. “Still livin' on a prayer though.”
I laugh and hug him again.
I bust my ass through the weekend, working twelve hours a day while Bella spends time with her grandparents, taking my work with me back home. It’s a labor of love though, and each moment is stamped with how I feel for Rocky.
Rocky's so busy that we can't get together, but it isn't until Saturday night that I realize we still haven't exchanged cell phone numbers. I give Gashouse a call though and ask them to pass along my phone number to Rocky because supposedly I have a question for him on the mix.
Finally, at six-thirty Sunday night, I finish the digital downloadable copy of Four Letters and send it via e-mail attachment and a high-quality data copy that I drive over to the Gashouse Studios offices. Larry already has the e-mail open when I get there, listening.