****
The Potter party departed unmolested from Johannesburg, South Africa. The white government, however, canceled the Potters’ Visas with the ultimatum that they could never appear in that country again as performers, or even as visitors.
Minorities throughout the world applauded their actions in South Africa while audiences from London to Sidney applauded their performances. Several reigning potentates pinned medals on George, while the the U.N. and White house sent him special accolades, praising his fight for racial equality. The only ones who really grumbled were the leaders in Cape Town and Pretoria, the twin capitols of South Africa. But they were too late. The wheels had already been set in motion and would soon lead to black supremacy in their country.
George was a firm believer in the saying: Idle hands are the devil’s work shop, and spent his travel time composing a new album based on the inspiring and profound things he’d seen and heard during his trip. He did idle away a few hours with Lydia in the private, on-plane boudoir. They didn’t fool anyone into thinking they were just sleeping in. The crew, musicians and Paul Connor knew what was going on behind closed doors, during the long flying mornings. The crew said nothing but smiled and relished their secret.
To avoid missing any grammar school George Two had been left at home with nanny Liza Cooper during this tour. It ended with a triumph in Australia. Their return to San Francisco was met with crowds of reporters and fans. Tired and happy to be home with little George and Liza, there was no respite. George and Paul immediately went to work on the new album.
TWENTY-TWO
The last clear, ringing high note died away and the triax speakers were silent. The small group seated in the big studio was also speechless; still under the spell of the voice and the songs they’d just heard. At last the blond-haired man in the control booth pressed the talk-back switch and broke the silence.
“Then I think we’re all agreed. Nothing less than fabulous!” he said with a broad grin.
The musicians in the studio nodded enthusiastically, got up and went to the man on the high stool at the solo mike. They clapped im on the back saying: “George, you’ve heard it before, and here it is again. You are the greatest!”
From the talk back speaker Paul Connor spoke again. Though their was emotion in his voice, he tried to keep it businesslike.
“Okay then. The bunch from Nashville and L.A. will be in town Monday morning, so let’s all try to make it here by one. You guys have a good weekend. Great job tonight!”
George nodded and shook hands with the drummer and the bass man, patted the piano player on the back and said sincerely. “Yeah, thanks men for keeping me going tonight.”
Just then, Darf Turney, the sound engineer put his had in and added. “Damned fine job, boys, see ya Monday.
“Thanks Darf, sounds great as always. Have a good one!” came their replies.
The musicians and the engineer said a few words to each other as they moved out of the big studio. George packed his guitar and straightened the music on the stand. He glanced up to see Paul looking at him through the control room window, an odd smile on his lips. George winked at him and made a sign to say: How about a drink?
Paul nodded and they met at the doors leading from the recording complex. Paul was still smiling as he turned off the lights and locked the studio. He put a hand on George’s shoulder as the two men walked down the hall to George’s office.
The office suite was big and comfortable. It was paneled in warm solid wood and there was soft carpeting under foot. There was a massive desk. Large leather chairs and couches made up the rest of the furnishings. Paul went to a large picture window as George opened the panel that hid the bar and small kitchen.
“Want something to eat?” George asked the young man at the window.
“No, thanks, just a double,” was Paul’s reply.
George splashed bourbon over ice and fixed himself a watered down version of the drink he’d prepared for Paul. Then he carried the drinks to the window. Paul took his with a nod of thanks and they stood silently sipping their liquor as they looked out across the terrace at the night lights of the city. San Francisco was covered by a thin blanket of fog that diffused the lights beneath it and the covering glowed and shimmered with many colors. Above the cloud, Coit Tower and a few other buildings stood guard over the bay.
“God, you were great tonight!” said Paul finally. “That voice is even better than last time, and your new songs are going to set the world on it’s ear.”
“Thanks, Paul, I hope so,” sighed the singer. It always felt good when Paul praised him. They were about the same age, but Paul had been in the business a lot longer and his opinion was one of the most respected and sought after in the contemporary music field.
“Oh-eee--a little tired tonight,” George breathed. “That took a bunch out of me.” He moved over and flopped down on the end of a long leather couch.
“I can well imagine,” replied the star-maker. “Maybe we should have taken a break after the tour before tackling this album,” added the man at the window. There was a strange catch in his throat as he spoke and George studied him carefully for a moment before he asked:
“Paul, is there something bugging you? You haven’t been yourself lately.”
“Matter of fact, I do have a little problem, but I didn’t want to bother you with it,” Paul replied in almost a whisper.
“Oh, come on! What are best friends for? Get over here and tell me all about it.”
As he moved to the couch, Connor glanced at the singer. There was a pained expression on the talent agent’s face.
“I...I don’t know where to begin,” he said with a slight stammer.
“How about at the beginning?” George suggested with a concerned smile.
Paul sighed as he sat down on the opposite end of the couch. He seemed to struggle for a moment to find the words. He leaned forward and not looking at the singer, he rolled the heavy glass between his hands. Then he started to speak--slowly at first, then with gathering speed as if he wanted to get it all out...to purge himself of the thing that plagued him.
“Once upon a time there was an idol, the whole world worshipped,” he began. “Most could only adore this deity from a distance. One worshipper was more fortunate, however. He had the great good luck to bask in the glory of this being’s living presence. Unhappily, his good fortune had one fatal drawback. You see George, the close proximity to his idol brought with it the inevitable....”
Paul Connor paused for a moment and took a long drink from his glass. His hand trembled slightly, causing the ice to rattle--the only sound in the room. The singer waited for him to continue.
“Then...then the worshipper...” the words caught and Paul bent forward convulsively: squeezing the glass as he he wanted to shatter it. George watched his friend struggle as he tried to rid himself of the demon that apparently raged within him. Puzzled by this outpouring of emotion from his friend, the singer tried to ease the way.
“Paul, just say it” Whatever it is you want to tell me, just say it. It’ll make it easier. I’m your buddy, you know I’ll understand.”
“I doubt even you will understand this.” Paul continued. “I’ve rehearsed this a bunch of times, but I’m making a botch of it. Listen, you know I admire you for your talent, your brains and your looks. What you don’t know is how much I admire you. There’s a word for it.”
He paused for a moment as if gathering the courage. “It...it’s... the most beautiful word in any language.”
The star-maker avoided the singer’s stunned expression. George sat slumped against the cushions, gazing at his friend. The fact that Paul loved him was really no great surprise. They all loved one another. Lydia, Paul and himself. They’d formed an almost idyllic menage-a-trois, yet George had always assumed the relationships were clearly drawn. He loved Lydia and his son as he thought a husband and father should. He loved P
aul as if the if his friend was his benevolent, fun-loving older brother. Paul was actually only three years older than George, but no matter, he imagined Paul reciprocated the feeling.
Paul certainly made their lives interesting. Despite the fact he was no longer a youthful movie star, he remained strikingly handsome and with his fair coloring, some of George’s public thought Paul must be Lydia’s brother. Together; Lydia, George and Paul had once been referred to as those three beauties, a left handed compliment from an overzealous critic. Paul worked like a man, but he played like a boy. He was full of little pranks and an endless store of jokes and show biz anecdotes that kept them all in a state of mirthful hysteria. It was no wonder there were times when George or Lydia got the urge to give Paul a hug. Why not? Theirs was a very loving family. Lydia thought it was cute the way George and Paul got on together--a pair of real cutups.
Their life together was perfect, and though George might be considered the star, a major part of their lives revolved around the personable young man who sat so dejectedly on the other end of the couch. George wondered now if that life would ever be the same. He still wanted Paul to be his good friend and loyal mentor, therefore he was faced with a great dilemma. How to keep his friend without seriously hurting him.
“Paul, I’m trying to understand how you feel. I may seem pretty naive at times, but I certainly know how important love can be. Look, you and Lydia and I all love each other. Perhaps when something happens when someone lives, plays and works closely with someone they really like and respect--something that’s bound to generate an excess of affection for that person.”
“I was afraid this would happen the moment we met.” Paul struggled on. “And as I got to know you better, it just got worse. All this talk of brotherly love you spout constantly can be very addictive. I tried to think or you as a friend...like a brother. Good luck with that! They say it takes all kinds to make a world. There are the so called normal or heterosexual ones like you and Lydia, and there are the others. I guess I’m one of those. I never made it any secret that I’m gay. It’s just a part of me and there is no denying it. Unfortunately, being around one of the most extraordinary beings on earth, has become impossible for this other.”
George sat silently, not knowing how to respond. Lydia had suspected what Paul was saying, but hoped nothing would come of it.
“I see only one way out...actuallly there are two, but I enjoy life too much to resort to the alternative. Since my feelings for you have become so difficult for me to control, there is nothing left for me, but to say good-by and move on.
“No Paul...we need you, and you’re too important to us....”
“Please let me finish,” Paul interrupted. “I’ve been rehearsing this for weeks and if confession is good for the soul, mine certainly needs confessing. Face it. You don’t need my help any more. I’ve spoken to Lydia about it; without going into any details, of course. But I think she’d be willing and able to take over the agent business. Lydia is certainly better qualified than anyone I know. I have other clients who really need my help. I should stop neglecting them and get back to work. If there are any major problems, I’m just a phone call away. I hope you and I will remain friends and see each other often.”
Though he didn’t want to admit it, George could finally see the point of Paul’s argument.
Though he loved Paul like a brother, there was no way he could return the physical love Paul was apparently alluding to. He put a hand on his friends arm as he responded.
“You know Lydia and I both love you. You’re part of our family--possibly the most important part. To lose you seems impossible. Couldn’t you find someone else to fill the void you seem to have?”
Paul stood up and moved away. “That’s part of the plan. You’ve been a positive influence in the love department and I need to get out there and find someone. There’s a new singer I’ve taken under my wing. I’m not sure, but he might be the one. He’s no George Potter, of course, but possibly an adequate substitute. I need to get back to New York and check him out.”
Paul could see tears welling up in his friend’s eyes as George replied “Paul...I don’t want to lose you, but if you are determined to go through with this, I can only wish you the best. We get to New York often. I just hope we can see you from time to time.”
“Now don’t feel rejected,” Paul interrupted. “I’m still producing this album, so I’ll be around for a few weeks, before I go.
“And don’t forget, Mr. Money Bags,” George laughed, “You are still vice-president of Potter Incorporated. With all the moolah pertaining there-to.”
Ignoring the last, Paul stood up and turned away from the singer. “Now, take your gorgeous self out of here and go home to your true love.”
Knowing Paul was right about a parting of the ways, he struggled up and went to his friend. He put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Darn it to hell! Why did this have to happen. Everything was so perfect. I’m sorry, Paul, maybe your right.” But one thing, you’re still a member of our family and Lydia and I don’t want you to be a stranger.”
Paul turned and gave George a hug and a smile. “Sure thing. Now get along home. I’ll see you on Monday.”
George glanced at his watch and realized it was late and Lydia was probably worrying.
He grabbed his coat, and turned one more time to look at Paul.
“So long, ol’ friend!” George said with feeling, then turned and headed for the elevator.
TWENTY-THREE
The musicians had been rehearsing for three hours with only short breaks for coffee and sandwiches. The engineers had ample time to set up and check microphone levels. Now the musicians sat and chatted together, or toyed with their instruments. A few were noodeling through some particularly difficult passages. They had come from L.A. and Nashville to celebrate, in music, what would undoubtedly prove to be another platinum record. The last three albums had topped the three million mark in sales. After playing through the orchestration charts several times, they were convinced this would be the biggest hit yet. These were men who know their business. They were all virtuosi in their own right, excellent at sight reading and so adaptable, their own individual styles could be molded into one--the inimitable style that was George Potter.
But George Potter was late, and George was never late. Finally there was a rustling of activity at the studio door and George’s publicity director, Tod Perkins entered followed by George. In the sound booth they saw Paul Connor, who was acting as project producer and Lydia, George’s wife. The new arrivals looked unusually serious, and though George greeted them, his grin lacked some of it’s usual dazzle. In the booth, Lydia gave Paul a sad smile and a hug. They exchanged a few words and Connor shook his head. In the studio George spoke for a few moments with the conductor; then went to his stool, unpacked his guitar and moved to the microphone.
“I’d like to go straight through all twelve selections. Tod tells me you have been rehearsing for hours and I appreciate that. Knowing you are all tape ready, right now. I know this is a bit unorthodox, but I’d like to get the feel of the whole album before we really settle down to the nit-picking.”
As usual with George Potter recording, there were no overdubs, no gimmicks, just the pure unvarnished truth. George nodded to them and after a few more words to the director He took his place in the solo booth. Some noticed his hand trembled a bit as he picked up his guitar and took his position at the microphone. Then, without warning he sneezed. He sniffed slightly as he adjusted his headphones. He asked for an A, tuned his instrument and gave the engineers their voice levels.
Finally George nodded to the leader though the glass and they were off. It was a great arrangement and George forgot his own personal problems as he concentrated on the task of giving the maximum interpretation to the words he sang.
The first song went without a hitch and so did the t
en that followed. The group was playing as one, and George was singing even better than ever. They were all flying down a common groove and could feel this was going to be a really important recording event. The twelfth cut went nearly as well as the others, but George felt uncomfortable with one of the high notes. At last the twelve songs were on tape and George came out of his booth to join the others for the playback. George pointed at Paul Connor who gave the signal to roll the tape. George sat next to the conductor with the charts spread out in front of them. George sneezed again and blew his nose.
They all agreed the cuts were extraordinary for a first run through. George made only a few notations to be worked out.
“Okay, lets print it and go home.” One of the Nashville men joked after the eleventh selection.
Then came the spot that had bothered George. The high note came and went. A couple of members glanced over at George for his reaction. He laughed.
“Boy, what a clinker.”
Some of the men smiled and shrugged. The conducted commented: “I thought it gave the line more character.”
“Come on. Don’t rationalize. A bad note’s a bad note.” George came back. Glancing at the clock over the control room window.
“Let’s take a dinner break. If you could all be back by eight-thirty, I’d like to workout a few things before we really get down to work tomorrow. You guys are sounding absolutely the finest,” George added. “If only ol' George’s pipes hold out, I think we’ve got another winner.”
They started again at about nine o’clock. Most of the musicians preferred to work in the evening. They were night people and did their best performing during the late evening hours. They started on cut twelve. George managed to get through it okay, though still claimed he was having to strain a bit for the high note. There was talk of changing the key, but that meant rewriting the entire arrangement. No one could hear anything less than his usual excellence, so he decided to let it go for now and concentrate on the other numbers.
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