I sighed. Having someone else on the other end of the phone somehow made me feel guilty. I knew they had been worried about me, but I also called often and they knew I was alive and well.
“I’m in Italy, mom. Florence to be exact. How are you?”
“How do you think I’ve been, Ella? I have been wondering every day where you are, what you’re doing, if you’re in trouble, if you’re being responsible…”
“Mom, relax, I’m fine. You got my messages, right? And my postcards and letters?”
“Yes, dear, we got your letters. But,” she said, in a tone that made me think I wasn’t going to like what she was going to say next, “you clearly have no idea how worried we have been about you.”
I must have underestimated how much they would actually care. Sure, they were my parents, and I knew to an extent they would worry about me, but they were not the tender, caring kind. This was the most affectionate my mother had been with me since I was a child. She must have really missed me.
“Mom, I felt I needed a break. From New York, from classical music, from everything.” From you two, I thought.
“Well, you took your break. If you come back now, you might still make it to apply to the post-grad fellowship next year. I’m sure they would be happy to have you at NYCMS.”
“Mom, I’m not doing a post-grad at New York Classical Music School or anywhere else. I’ve told you I don’t want to play classical music anymore. I will never be as good as I need to be. I actually didn’t play for months…”
“Ella!” I heard my mother reprimanding me from the other side of the world.
“Look, you need to give it up. Both of you. From now on, I will make my own decisions. Good or bad. It’s my life, mom,” I said, trying to sound resolute.
Why did my parents always make me feel like a weak-minded little girl?
Months had gone by and not much had changed. They still thought I would go back and continue on the path that they wanted me to follow.
Lou came out of the shower and found me in the bedroom.
He frowned when he saw me talking on the phone; I probably looked just as distraught as I felt.
“Ella, you can’t throw your life away!” my mom cried over the receiver. “So, is this what you’re going to do for the rest of your life? You’ll be a babysitter in Amsterdam?”
“No, that’s not what I’m going to do for the rest of my life.”
“What are you in Florence for anyway? Amsterdam didn’t have enough fun things to do? You had to go try the Dolce Vita?” she asked in a mocking tone.
Was my mother trying to be funny? And was she actually implying I had moved to Amsterdam because it was easy to score drugs? Was that what she thought of me? Well, that was disappointing on a whole different level. I knew my parents weren’t happy with me because I didn’t meet their expectations, but I never would have imagined that they’d make me out to be a druggie. Sure, I had sporadically used in the past, but that was before I started working for Johan and Helga. It had only been a few days, but the conversation with my mom was making me realize how much I missed them.
I was ready to get off the phone.
“I’m not backing down, mom. You should know I’m not going to change my mind. I’m done with the career path you had planned for me. And for your information, I don’t smoke marijuana mom, or do anything else. And I’m actually in Florence to record an album with an American musician. His name is Lou Rivers, google him! Goodbye,” I said, hanging up the phone.
In the next few days, we got into some sort of routine. We’d get up and start working by ten in the morning. Michele and Giuliano were always the ones that helped out, although I heard Lou talk about hiring someone else to play the cello and the trumpet on a couple of songs. Sometimes we’d all go out to a late lunch around two in the afternoon—late lunch if you considered American standards—and we’d get back to work by three at the latest to start working again. Other times, if Mr. Bossypants wasn’t satisfied, we’d have to call for food. I usually would pick the place off the internet and listen to Giuliano place the order over the phone in Italian. He had a great voice, but I was seriously impressed when I heard him sing the first time.
His voice was sweet, sexy, and so damn smooth; it was just perfect for soul music. He was just really good. I could tell even Lou thought the same thing. His talents were wasted as a sound engineer.
When I told him it was a pity he couldn’t just be a full-time musician, he replied, “It’s just like that Rolling Stones song. You can’t always get what you want.” He shrugged it off, but his face clouded over and I hated myself for even bringing it up.
Lou would always somehow find the time to show me a different corner of Florence, although I wasn’t begging to go sightseeing. Day after day, I realized I was there more for the little things, like just being able to stroll hand in hand, or sleep together; I liked the way he cleared his throat before he started singing, or the way he locked eyes with me when he played the last note of a song.
I loved the way he would glance at me when we’d be in the recording studio, or how he smiled when he’d come walking in the room after I had a solo session.
The look of amazement on his face alone made me crazy happy, and as days went by I just felt more and more confident about what I was bringing to the table, what I was there for. Every once in a while, we’d make small changes in the melody and he would always ask for my opinion or my ideas. I started looking at music in a completely different way; I was feeling the music in a different way. I felt more inspired than I ever had before.
One day I asked him how come he was always so bossy with the guys. He frowned and then bit his lip.
“I learned the hard way years ago that if you don’t make yourself heard in this business, everyone will walk all over you; when it’s your face and your voice out there, you’d better make sure they listen to you. You’re the one that’s exposed.”
When we were alone, I got to see more of his playful side in the recording room too. From time to time, while we were rehearsing, I’d catch him dancing and acting silly, all while he was strumming his guitar. I considered that maybe he was doing it just to make me laugh, but when I caught him by himself doing pretty much the same, I realized that’s just how he was. I was having so much fun, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face if I tried. I loved listening to him sing and watching him play, but playing with him was even better. Hearing the music we were recording together in my headphones kept me in a state of constant excitement. I had butterflies in my stomach because I was so in love with every part of this. I had never, never imagined that I would feel this in sync with music and so in my element. When his eyes would meet mine, it added even more meaning and emotion to the whole experience.
We weren’t alone, but he wouldn’t stop looking at me in the sweet yet sexy way only he knew how; his eyes communicating so many words to me without saying any.
On most days, he would be the one getting up early, making coffee and breakfast for the two of us. On a Saturday we weren’t recording, I got up before he did, and made him pancakes. They were closer to the American version than Helga’s version, but they would have to do. When he came into the kitchen, he embraced me around my waist, and started singing some old tune, while he twirled me around. I was happy, deliriously happy, and I couldn’t help but laugh because I’d never thought such men existed.
“What are you laughing at?” he asked with one of his brilliant smiles that reached his eyes.
“I didn’t think men like you existed. The ones who know how to be romantic,” I said, while he made me twirl. He brought me back closer to him, tipped my chin up with a finger and brought his face a few inches away from mine.
“What kind of man are you if you don’t romance your girl properly?”
“You’re right. I’m the luckiest girl,” I agreed, reaching up to kiss him.
It had been ten days since I got here, and after a “rocky” start, everything had been perfect.
That changed when Hans Koll showed up later that weekend.
CHAPTER 17
“I had no idea he was going to show up,” Lou announced.
“Do you really want me to believe he didn’t call you or mention that he was going to come?” I asked, frustrated.
“He didn’t! I would have told you if I had any idea.”
“I don’t understand. All I ever heard was how the man was a recluse, how he never left his house in Amsterdam let alone the country, yet he comes to your goodbye party and now he traveled all the way to freaking Florence? Call me crazy, but that sounds suspicious.”
“Oh, you and your theories,” he joked, trying to cheer me up as he grabbed my hips and reached for a kiss. He gave me a small peck, but I still pouted.
“What can I say? Maybe he likes my music so much that I make him want to get out of the house! That would really be something, don’t you think? I can even see the headline: Famed Recluse Producer Leaves Home to Attend a Lou Rivers Show!”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“I don’t like it. This will change our dynamic, you’ll see,” I exhaled.
“You have nothing to worry about.”
“The man doesn’t like me; it’s not that hard to figure out.”
“He barely knows you! How could he not like you? I’ll make him like you,” he tipped his chin in my direction, “but…you know…not too much.” He gave me a half smile and I stopped arguing about it, but I knew that working with Hans Koll was not going to be a walk in the park.
I wasn’t wrong. When Hans Koll set foot in the recording studio, I felt the mood shift. Lou had been the only real producer in place, and now that another person with more experience and authority was there, things were changing and the playful, easygoing atmosphere was gone. I could tell from Lou’s tone of voice and from his body language that he was all business, despite glancing my way every once in a while, giving me one of those looks he reserved for when we were alone.
Even Michele and Giuliano were not as “chill” as they had been days before. Hans Koll’s reputation preceded him, of course, and they were both excited and terrified to get to be in the same room with him.
What ticked me off about the producer wasn’t that he was an irascible, hot-tempered motherfucker. It was his impassiveness, the way his face would always appear to be so emotionless and stoic that pissed me off. You never knew what he was thinking; he would never react when you were finished with a take, he just told you to repeat it. I felt like whatever I did, I was never good enough.
It wasn’t just when I was the one playing. Even when Lou was recording solo, he could never get even a simple nod of approval from him. He’d just tell him to do another take.
Lou had so much patience with him; maybe it was because he admired him so much or he had gotten used to working with people worse than him. He would never lose his composure, and start all over again. I knew it was also because he had so much love for his craft and he was convinced that only practice would make perfect.
Seeing him try his hardest over and over, made me realize once again how much I had to learn from him.
As much as it pained me to admit it, as days went by, I realized just how good of a producer Hans Koll was. He never spoke to me, but apparently he did talk to Lou, because he gave him several suggestions on how some tracks could be improved. He hired extra musicians to come in and play on certain songs. I didn’t know how he found musicians on such short notice. Connections. The man must have been an endless resource of useful contacts. He had given suggestions on how to improve several songs and in the end, his advice was spot on. The songs sounded almost completely different, but for the better. He came up with the idea of adding some strings on a ballad Lou had been working on. It was just voice and piano in the beginning, but after adding a string quartet, the song was simply magical.
I wasn’t going to admit his skills made me like him more, but I couldn’t deny his talent. The man was famous for a reason.
“I’m going to need you to sing backing vocals,” Lou said, placing his chin on my shoulder, hugging me around the waist.
“What?” I asked him turning around, a look of sheer horror on my face.
“What do you mean? Why are you surprised? Do you see anyone else here?”
“Have Giuliano do your backup vocals. Have you heard him? He’s wonderful,” I said seriously. Singing live was one thing. Singing on track was a completely different one. I wasn’t prepared for it. Obviously.
“I don’t want Giuliano. I want you. I want you to sing on the song just like we rehearsed them. That’s how I want them to sound.” He arched an eyebrow, giving me a look that meant he wasn’t having any of it.
I slumped my shoulders in defeat and sighed. It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to sing on the track. I also did not want to sing with Hans Koll around.
“Come on,” he said softly, his fingers tracing circles on my back, making me relax on the spot. “Besides, it’s not like you have a choice. It’s in your contract.”
I rolled back my head, exasperated, and he started kissing me on the neck, trailing kisses from my collarbone to my jaw. I searched for his lips when he got closer to mine. He placed a soft kiss on my lips, but when I leaned in for more, he held back.
I narrowed my eyes at him.
“Come on, nightingale. You sing, and I promise you won’t ever forget tonight,” he gave me a mischievous grin. The words, whispered so softly were all my body needed to start a slow-building fire.
“Okay,” I replied to his invitation, my voice a low whisper.
Unfortunately, my first two tries were a huge disappointment. I had never sounded worse. I was really pitchy and I couldn’t keep control of my voice as I usually did. I was too nervous, and my vocal cords were too tense.
After the fifth disappointing take, it was evident that my case of bad nerves was just getting worse. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, and in true masochist form, I made the mistake of looking over to where Hans Koll was standing in the control room. He always looked at everyone with a severe look, but in the stupid state of mind I was in, I was convinced his eyes looked particularly hard as he was silently judging my poor performance.
“Let’s take five,” Lou announced over the microphone from the control room. I stared at his face, and gave him a small nod, unable to reply. I wanted to say so many things, especially I’m sorry; but he didn’t look mad or disappointed. I could see a faint smile on his face, and by the way he looked at me, I could almost swear he was trying to be reassuring, which made me feel even worse about the whole thing, because I knew I was holding up everyone else. I felt like I was disappointing him. I was nothing but a dilettante. I didn’t understand how Lou could ever trust me with something this important. The music part I could handle, but singing on track wasn’t for everyone. It certainly didn’t seem like it was something I could do.
Giuliano stormed in the room. I was a little startled by it. He looked like he was on a mission. He sighed deeply and I thought he had come into the recording booth to fix or get something. I thought he wanted me to get out of his way, so I tried to walk away from where I was standing.
“Stay there,” he said seriously, as he got closer to me and took my hands in his. He gave me a tip of his chin telling me to look at him and pay attention.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.” He said do in a thick accent, and that made me giggle a little. “You’re going to take a deep breath,”—I did exactly as he told me—“and we’re going to start singing something that’s going to make your cords relax,” he added, holding his throat and looking unsure whether or not that was the right word. I gave him a nod to tell him I understood. I looked through the glass to spy on Lou, who was in the same spot as a few moments ago, and he seemed as curious as I was trying to grasp what Giuliano had in mind.
Giuliano was deep in thought for a moment but then closed his eyes and said, “Okay, let’s see…you’re young, but
you should know this one.”
When he started singing, “Shorty get down…” I instantly knew what it was. I chuckled and shook my head. What an odd choice, I thought, laughing.
“How is a song about a prostitute going to help me relax my vocal cords, exactly?” I asked, jokingly. His eyes shot open and his sweet R&B voice stopped abruptly.
“‘No Diggity’ is about a prostitute?” he asked, confused. Something had gotten lost in translation there.
“I’m pretty sure,” I replied nodding. “Getting paid is her forte,” I recited, raising one eyebrow, mentioning the lyrics of the song.
“Oh, don’t be so uptight,” he said with a shrug, “if those girls in Pitch Perfect sang it you can do it too, no?”
“True. I guess I can,” I exhaled, letting out a breath.
“Now, where were we?” he asked and after clearing his voice, he started singing again. He was still holding my hands, and with a tap of his thumb on my wrist, he let me know it was time for me to join in. I was surprised to even know some of the lyrics.
Surprisingly, as we repeated the verses of the song that were sung and not rapped, I could feel myself relax, and my singing got gradually less stiff. I held Giuliano’s gaze and started smiling as we were both singing and harmonizing. By the time we started singing “Hey yo hey yo hey yo,” I had a full-on smile, and we were swaying our arms together. Giuliano was smiling back at me too, and I saw a gleam in his eyes that told me he was enjoying this as much as I was.
“Good!” he exclaimed almost cutting me off. “How do they feel now?” he asked, clutching his throat again. “Fine, yeah?” I gave him a silent nod. “I think you got it now. Let’s get back to it, yes?”
“Okay,” I said, putting my headphones back on.
As I got ready to start again, I glanced at Lou on the other side. He looked like was just trying his hardest not to laugh, biting his lip, a delighted expression in his eyes.
I smiled back at him, and told him, “I’m ready.”
“Hello Ella,” Hans Koll greeted me one day when he suddenly joined me in the kitchen upstairs.
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